


Boy In The Sun

by anomalously



Series: The Way It Is [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student Mickey, English Major Ian, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, past and present abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:15:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU where from the moment Mickey Milkovich saw Ian Gallagher, he knew the redhead was going to be a major problem for him. AKA Mickey's side of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4009498/chapters/9008074">Boy Without A Face</a></p><p>This is not a full flowing type of story, but simply moments.<br/>Additional tags/warnings/characters to be added or changed when necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> Same starting notes from BWAF:
> 
> 1\. Mickey might come across as slightly OOC in his demeanor. Maybe? idk My point is, he's a little more chill in this. Bordering on a little defeated because of Terry. He's still Mick though.
> 
> The best way that I can describe Mickey & his sexuality in this is that the closet door is open, but he's still chillin in the back. You know?
> 
> 2\. It might be very obvious to some of you that I did not go to college and therefore, I am kind of winging that aspect of it. Sorry for any mistakes on that end, but I'm trying! (it's not even a big part of the story but eh, still)

Mickey had been playing pool with his brothers the first time he saw Ian Gallagher. The Milkovich boys met up at least once a week at Shooters to play a few rounds, drink beer and shit-talk on each other. Basic brother bonding. It was the one bar just outside of campus that their dad didn't bother going to, so obviously it was their first choice.

There’d been a pretty heated debate over who was the better action star: Seagal or Stallone. Mickey had been in the middle of talking when Ian walked into the bar, distracting him for a brief second, first from the simple act of the bar door opening, letting in a beam of sunlight… second from actually seeing Ian for the first time. 

He was tall and and pale and Mickey’s fingers itched, wanting to stop what he was doing and draw him.

At time time, Mickey didn't know anything about the redhead other than when he walked through the door and the sun hit his hair from behind, it looked like the guy’s head was on fucking fire; he did this thing where he ran a hand over his hair and Mickey’d never wanted be a hand before. But no, better yet, he’d like the see that hair fisted between his fingers. Yeah. That would be fucking hot. 

He was kind of a lot to take in. Kind of really fucking beautiful.

Mickey made sure he didn't stare at the redhead while he talked with his brothers. But he felt Ian staring him, felt that intense gaze from those sharp eyes —he was at the bar with some other guy, nursing a couple beers. Mickey wondered what he was looking at him like that for. Did he know him? Did they have a class together and Mickey had somehow fucking glanced over him? He didn’t really see how that was even remotely possible. 

Because Ian had this face that kind of demanded remembrance. Mickey imprinted that face into his mind the moment he saw him —benefits of a photographic memory. Ian was planes and angles and a barely crooked jaw that Mickey wondered would look like stretching open. He was this odd combination of sweet and lethally gorgeous. Mickey didn't use words like gorgeous, but for Ian, he’d use it all fucking day.

Then Mickey looked up when Colin and Iggy were distracted with ragging on each other. He looked straight at the redhead, his brows raising partially out of catching him, partially out of curiosity. The redhead gave him a little smirk, _that_ kind of smirk. So Mickey thought _fuck it_ , and smirked back. Ian had a good smirk, it would have been a shame to have it wasted.

“Ay, Romeo, it’s your turn to fucking break,” Iggy shouldered Mickey.

Mickey sucked his teeth at his brother, raising his middle finger. He took a drag from his cigarette, took his shot, sinking the number three ball in a corner pocket. 

 

* * *

 

The second time Mickey saw Ian Gallagher, he'd been sitting at the bar, alone. It was a week later, Mickey was fucking exhausted. Between bullshit Business classes, his dad breathing down his neck about every fucking thing he could pick at, and working on pieces for his Studio Art class, he was just fucking wrecked.

He’d been sitting there for maybe half an hour, zoning out, sipping on a beer, not really doing much else except for pulling on a cigarette that hung from his lips —not caring enough to actually hold it between his fingers at that moment. 

Then someone sat next to him, right fucking next to him, not even giving a curtsey stool between them like a decent human being with personal boundaries. 

It was Ian —Mickey only knew this because out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of that hair and saw pale hands resting on top of the bar. The guy had nice hands. Real nice hands, long fingers… _yeah_.

“I like your tattoos.”

Mickey finally looked over at Ian, narrowing his eyes at him while he replayed his voice over and over in his mind. He had a nice voice, but the words kind of threw Mickey. People didn't compliment his tattoos —not that he blamed anyone, he barely liked them, himself.

“Uh, thanks,” Mickey replied, a little unsure.

The redhead was even more lethal up close. All those fucking freckles, that hair, _fuck,_ that hair. Mickey never really knew he had a thing for gingers before, but this guy gave him a reason to consider investing in a new fetish. Mickey could tell he was going to be trouble for him, serious fucking trouble.

“I think I saw you in here last week,” the redhead said, “Playing pool?”

“Sounds about right,” Mickey nodded, pulling on his cigarette again before taking it from his lips. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning —Mickey wasn’t exactly the king of small-talk, but this guy sure as hell wasn’t either.

“I’m Ian,” he held out his hand, “Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey didn't take Ian’s hand. For one, he had paint on his own, and he wasn’t exactly a big hand-shaker. It just didn't really make sense to him, shaking hands. He knew a lot of people thought it was fucking rude, and maybe it was. Whatever, right?

“Mickey… Milkovich.”

Ian took his hand back, his eyes still fixed on Mickey; it was weird, to be stared at like that, like he was worth being stared at. Not that Mickey thought he was a fucking mutant-looking troll or anything, he knew he was _alright_ looking. But fuck… compared to Ian, Mickey didn’t really think he could measure up. The guy looked like he belonged in magazines.

“So you’re Coach Milkovich’s son, huh?”

Ah. There it was. Of course. Mickey sighed, long and dawn out; un-fucking-believable. He ran his tongue between his back teeth, not really having the fucking patience for this shit.

“Yeah. But if you’re looking for an in to talk to him for some fucking try-out or tickets for your family or something else, don’t fucking bother, man,” Mickey said, keeping his eyes trained on his beer. He should have known.

“I don’t even like football.”

Oh. Mickey looked back over at Ian. And the look on the guy’s face, all wide-eyes and apologizing; before he knew it, he was giving Ian a slow smirk and his full attention. Yeah, this guy was going to be a real major problem.

“Me neither,” Mickey admitted, stubbing his cigarette out in the cheap plastic ash tray.

Ian’s lips pressed together for a second, his freckled cheeks tinting pink, “You in here a lot?”

Oh god, that just happened. Despite himself, Mickey laughed. Okay, so there were _two_ words that Mickey didn't really use in his every-day: _gorgeous_ and _adorable_. But these words were what he would use to describe his new redheaded problem. 

A really fucking gorgeous, adorable problem. 

“Is that the best you got? You come here often? Damn. Thought I was special,” Mickey said. He wasn’t good at small-talk, but he knew how to throw a line out, how to keep his voice low and all that shit. It’s like a formula: it works.

Ian flushed, laughing nervously; damn, he had a great smile. Mickey’s fingers were back to itching, needing to sketch this out as soon as he could.

“I could uh… I could make it up to you.”

Who knew that seven words could hit so fucking hard and make his whole body ache at the thought. Everything changed with those seven words though —it wasn't even the words, it was the _way_ they were said. Words said like that were usually followed by asking for a phone number, asking for a commitment. 

Mickey dragged his eyes all over Ian’s face, remembering every detail he could, every freckle, because this couldn't happen. He couldn't do this with the redhead. Ian’s face said it all: I want to take you out. Ian’s face didn’t hide anything, that much was certain. Mickey couldn't do that. It’s just the way it was. It just wasn't possible.

So he had to store this memory away; he had to remember the curve of Ian’s mouth, the angle of his cheekbone, the sharpness of his brow… his hair. Fuck. Mickey stored it all away, taking mental picture after mental picture.

“I’m sure you could. Thing is… I ain’t like that, man,” Mickey lied. He’s recited this lie perfectly. _I ain’t like that. I ain’t like that._

Immediately, Ian’s shoulders fell, “Shit, I’m sorry.” He did that thing where he ran a hand over his hair and sounded embarrassed, borderline fucking mortified. 

Mickey felt kind of shitty. But he kept his face passive and easy. No sense being a dick and making a big deal about it, the guy obviously felt bad enough. He slapped a wad of cash down on the bar and sighed, “Don’t worry about it.”

He watched Ian watch him slide off the barstool. The redhead’s mouth was parted a bit, his eyes careful. Mickey couldn't help it, he clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder, squeezing a little, feeling the curve of his shoulder, the curve of the muscle. He hoped it was coming off as a buddy-thing and not a _I’m trying to remember all this shit about you_ thing.

“See you around, Red.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey had his hands raised in the air, middle fingers standing as he walked backwards. His sister returned the gesture, sticking her tongue out. Mandy, his shit-stirring little sister was kind of a handful, but she was cool. 

She kind of had to be, growing up with three big brothers who did nothing but rag on each other and had a tendency to play with guns. Mandy kept up, not even for a girl though, for a fucking _person_ , she kept up. Not a lot of people could.

As soon as he turned back around, Mickey collided with a body —collided _hard_ , like that body had been fucking sprinting or something. He almost snapped at the guy, until he realized at the last second it was Ian, trying to open his backpack and hold a bottle of water at the same time. 

In instinct, Mickey’s hands flew out to steady the redhead, gripping his shoulders, “Whoa. Where’s the fucking fire, Red?”

Ian’s face almost matched his hair, “Sorry, I’m uh… I wasn’t looking.”

No fucking shit. Mickey realized his hands were still firmly planted on Ian’s shoulders. He had nice shoulders -nice arms too, Mickey could tell even though he was wearing a jacket. 

“It’s cool,” he shrugged, slipping his hands off of his shoulders before his body started doing something embarrassing.

They were finally standing upright next to each other and Mickey took stock in their height difference, took stock in Ian’s form up-close, taking those mental pictures for later, because his fingers were itching yet again. 

The thing was, Mickey liked tall guys —had taller guys than Ian, before. But _sometimes_ tall guys can look either too lanky, or too bulky. Ian though… well fuck. The guy was filled out in all the right places.

“You good?” Mickey asked.

Ian nodded, reaching into his backpack. He pulled out a power-bar, “Yeah, just gonna be late.”

“Can’t have that,” Mickey said before he could stop himself. 

He wasn’t supposed to be throwing lines out at the redhead. He was supposed to be shutting this shit down. But Ian kept watching him with this puppy blue-green eyes, and that alone kind of did it for Mickey.

He walked away before he dug himself any deeper. Because the very simple and evident fact was that he really didn't want to shut this shit down. And that just added to the problem that was Ian Gallagher.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a little obsessed with Mickey and Ian in BWAF and really wanted to dip into Mickey's side of the story. 
> 
> If you've already read BWAF, some of this might be a little bit repetitive, but obviously there's stuff going on in Mickey's life that you didn't get to see before. I like the idea of taking that journey on Mickey's side. Ian was so fun. 
> 
> Also, more time to play with all of the Milkovich kids.


	2. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took a moment for Mickey to realize that he wasn’t actually dreaming. That what was in front of him, his redheaded problem looking down at a slip of paper, rattling off their pizza order, wasn’t some crack sex dream. Holy shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Terry. Homophobic Language. Mild Violence. Marijuana.

Mickey inhaled slowly, watching the glass chamber fill with thick white smoke, that sweet bubbling sound filling the spaces between the soft music playing in the background. 

Once the chamber was all white and pretty, he exhaled through his nose to make room, lifted the slide, and then sucked all the smoke down; he set the bong back on his coffee table. Mickey held the smoke in and leaned back against the couch cushions, settling in.

“I just really think you should talk to Iggy about the fucking dealing shit,” Mandy said, picking the bong up for herself. “Weed is one thing, whatever. But he started dealing coke and pills. He’s being fucking dumb.”

Mickey finally exhaled, watching the giant cloud float unto the ceiling of his apartment, “The fuck makes you think me talking to him is gonna do anything?”

“Because he listens to you,” Mandy said, rolling her eyes. She pressed her mouth to the opening of the chamber and lit up.

“He does _not_. Iggy does whatever the fuck he wants,” Mickey said, running a hand over his hair, “He gets busted, that’s on him. He fucking knows that.”

Mandy held her hit in for a few more seconds, her shoulders falling as she gave Mickey one of her _are you fucking kidding me_ faces. “Nice brother-ing,” she said on her exhale, coughing once at the end.

Mickey felt a little floaty around the edges, tilting his head back against the back of the couch, “Why don’t you just stay outta everyone’s fucking business. I know it’s hard for you, but fucking try.”

He felt a sharp pain in his knee as his sister kicked him, “You’re a fucking asshole,” she laughed.

Mickey laughed with her. Yeah, he was.

“When are Iggy and Colin getting here?”

Mickey shrugged, “Better question. When is the pizza getting here?”

His sister groaned, “That is the better—”

There was a knock at the door. Both Mickey and Mandy looked at each other, Mandy dissolving into giggles, saying something about ask and you shall receive.

“Go get it,” Mickey said.

Mandy frowned at him, “Fuck off, you go get it, I’m the guest.”

“You’re not a guest,” Mickey huffed, standing up from the couch, “You’re my fucking sister. Fucking annoying ass hoe-bag.”

Something hit him on the back of the head. Mickey turned around, seeing an empty, crushed can of soda behind him. He raised his middle finger at Mandy before opening the door.

It took a moment for Mickey to realize that he wasn’t actually dreaming. That what was in front of him, his redheaded problem looking down at a slip of paper, rattling off their pizza order, wasn’t some crack sex dream. Holy shit.

“Well ain’t this a bad porno waiting to fucking happen,” Mickey grinned. He tried to stop grinning, but he was fucking high, so it was a lost cause.

Ian looked up from the piece of paper, “Oh shit.”

Oh shit is right. “Didn’t know you were a pizza boy, Red.”

Ian mumbled something that Mickey didn't quite catch; he handed over the pizza boxes and Mickey just stood there and held him in his hands, feeling the warmth on his skin. Smelled real good; his stomach growled. Oh shit, he forgot the money to pay for the pizza. He was so fucking dumb when he was high.

“You’ve never delivered to me before, have you?” Mickey asked, drawing his brows together as he tried to remember. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months, but still.”

Ian shook his head.

“Mickey! Hurry up!”

Mickey pulled a face at Mandy’s impatient yelling from inside his apartment, “Ay, why don’t you get off your fucking ass and come get this shit! And bring the money, it’s on the table!” Mickey hollered back, rolling his eyes at Ian, “Fucking harpy, man.”

Ian laughed all nervous, like he had at the bar. He shifted on his feet, looking like he wanted to bolt. While Mickey waited for his sister to bring the money, his floaty mind let him let himself look at the redhead. 

He dragged his eyes up and down, taking advantage of the small window of time. Mickey couldn't see what Ian had going on under his clothes, obviously, but he could definitely imagine. And what he was imaging wasn’t half fucking bad. 

(In the back of his mind, Mickey knew that he was blatantly checking Ian out, but that knowledge was so far back, and covered up by a thick layer of THC, so there was nothing he could do about it, other than go with it. That was something he kind of hated about being high, _knowing_ he was acting weird, but not being able to do a damn thing about it.) 

Mandy finally came to the door, taking the pizza boxes while he took the money. Then she looked over at Ian and her whole face kind of lit up. 

“Hello gorgeous,” she said, looking between Mickey and Ian, giving Mickey a quick, knowing eyebrow arch. 

Here’s the thing that Mickey completely forgot, up until that very second: _Mandy saw him and Ian run into each other on campus. She saw that whole interaction._

Then days later, when they were hanging out, she was leafing through his sketchbook and found… the drawings. The _drawings_. Of Ian’s _face_. The drawings of Ian’s face that Mickey had made from various angles. Those drawings. Mickey had always hated when she went through his sketchbook, but that day had been fucking awful.

Because Mickey doesn't draw guys like that, especially in his _personal_ sketchbook. With painstaking detail, from memory… not unless it’s for an assignment. So Mandy _knew_ right away. 

She knew, but she also kept referring to Ian as _gorgeous_ , like she had a fucking boner for him or something. Mickey knew she did it to get under his skin, but it was still annoying because, you know… what if Ian was bi and his sister fucking _tainted_ him? Mickey cringed at the thought. That would literally ruin everything.

“Mickey, he’s _gorgeous_. Look at that hair, and that _face_ ,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“His name is keep it in your fucking pants,” Mickey said before his sister could make this any more awkward.

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes, head falling back dramatically. Then she looked back at Ian and smiled all wide, “He’s so territorial.”

He was going to fucking kill her. Mickey ran a hand over his hair, “Shut up and go get the fucking movie ready. Iggy and Colin are gonna be here. Fucking stoner.”

Finally, Mandy went back to the living room, leaving Mickey at the front door with Ian again. He remembered he had a handful of cash, so he handed it over.

“Uh, thanks,” Ian said.

The redhead turned to leave, but before Mickey really thought it through, his filter having been long forgotten, Mickey reached out and wrapped his hand around Ian’s forearm. He let go a moment later, when he saw how Ian looked back at him with kind of wide eyes.

“You uh… you wanna come in for a beer or something?” Mickey asked, raising his brows, not really wanting Ian to leave just yet. “We’re gonna watch Super Troopers and get high. High _er_ ,” he huffed, feeling all floaty in his chest now. That last hit had been bigger than he thought.

“I can’t, man. Got two more deliveries,” Ian said, scratching the back of his neck. “Thanks though.”

“Oh shit, that’s right,” Mickey waved a dismissive hand. The guy was fucking working. Jesus. Sometimes he really hated how he was when he was high. “You just brought the pizza’s. I’m fucking stupid when I’m high, sorry.”

“Mickey!” Mandy hollered from inside the apartment, “I can’t find the fucking movie —oh nevermind!”

Mandy was seriously the fucking worst, sometimes. Mickey groaned, trying to force his frustration down with it. “I should take care of this shit before she fucking breaks something,” he told Ian.

The redhead nodded, this little grin spreading on his face. He had these dimples, because of fucking course he did. Lethal face, puppy eyes, dimples. Jesus, _fuck_.

“Have fun,” Ian said, taking a step back from the door.

Mickey, stupidly, waved as he closed the door, “You too, Red.”

When Mickey got back to the livingroom, Mandy was sitting on the couch, mouth full of pizza, fanning herself while her eyes rolled back, “He’s even prettier up close.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey frowned at her, “Seriously. Are you fucking touched in the head?”

Mandy flipped him off, “Why are you so mean?”

“Why are you so obnoxious?”

“Excuse me, didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend.”

Mickey picked up a slice of pizza, settling down on the couch next to his sister, “I don’t do—”

“I don’t do boyfriends,” Mandy recited with a sigh. “That is so gross.”

“Whatever,” Mickey rolled his eyes, shoving pizza into his mouth. “You’re the one with the fuck-buddy fetish.”

Mandy shoved his arm with her foot, “Shut up!”

 

* * *

 

The bad thing about having his dad pay for his apartment was that Mickey didn't exactly have the right to privacy. At least, that’s what his father believed anyway. So Mickey had to keep his place clean of anything… incriminating. Weed, alcohol, that sort of shit, that was okay. Pages of drawings of another’s guys face in his sketchbook? That was not acceptable.

Terry Milkovich sons weren’t gay. They didn't admire other men. They certainly didn't draw other men with such detail and care. It just didn't happen. 

So when Mickey came home to find his dad hunched over his sketchbook, his whole body shuddered in fear. It was bad enough that Terry’s youngest son was a fucking artist, but even worse that his _personal_ sketchbook had evidence of something that wasn't possible: attraction to another man. 

Because, again, Terry Milkovich’s sons weren’t gay.

Mickey kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to speak first.

“What the fuck is this?” his dad asked, holding up a torn out page from the sketchbook. Fucking torn out.

“It’s for class,” Mickey said, his lie automatic.

But Terry shook his head, walking towards him. Mickey clenched his fists at his sides, trying to keep his face passive. “You’re gonna stand there and fucking lie to my face?”

Mickey shook his head, “I’m not lying. It’s for class.”

The problem was that Terry was like a human lie-detector, with his children. The problem was that Mickey was looking straight into his fathers eyes and fucking _lying_ to him, knowing what would happen, knowing how fucking disrespectful it was, how fucking _stupid_ it was. 

But what else was he supposed to say? _Yeah, I’ve been drawing this guy because I have a fucking ridiculous boner for him_? Not fucking likely. There was no good way to go about this. So he had to take what was coming to him.

Terry reared his arm back and it went flying, the back of his hand hitting Mickey in the cheek, snapping his head to the side. Terry’s back-handing was the fucking worst. It stung and pulsed with heat, making Mickey stumble backwards.

“Lying to my fucking face?” Terry snarled, grabbing a handful of Mickey’s shirt, pushing him against the wall, nearly knocking the wind out of him; pain shot up Mickey's back. “What have I told you about this faggot shit?!”

Mickey kept his eyes trained on the floor, flinching from his father’s yelling. He was fucking powerless and weak and it killed him. Anyone else, Mickey would unleash holy fucking hell. But his father had this way of forcing him back into that weak little five-year-old mindset.

“It’s… it’s not what you think,” Mickey lied, _again_.

“Fucking _lying_ , ungrateful little prick,” Terry growled, cocking his fist back.

Everything hurt so bad, and happened so fast. By the time Terry was done with him, Mickey was left crumpled on the floor, clutching at his left side. The drawing of Ian’s face was left next to him, wadded up and torn nearly in half.

It was a struggle, and pain radiated through his body, pulsing with his heartbeat, but Mickey finally stood up on shaky legs, stumbled over to his couch, and sat down. His eyes stung with tears that he wouldn't allow. Because he was fucking careless and he knew, he fucking _knew_ that he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Mickey fished his phone out of his pocket, keeping a hold on his left side. His dad got him good there, but he was alright. It was just pain and bruises, probably a scrape on his jaw and above his eyebrow from his dads ring. That shit healed. He was fine. 

Still though, he made a promise when this shit happened.

 

[Mickey 6:25 PM] You busy?

[Mandy 6:27 PM] No, what’s up?

[Mickey 6:30 PM] Dad found the drawings.

[Mandy 6:31 PM] I’ll be right there.

 

Mickey was fairly close to all his siblings, but he was definitely most bonded with Mandy. It was probably because they were so close in age, being Irish Twins and all. When something like this happened, she’d come over, help clean him up and they’d watch movies and smoke until Mickey would fall asleep on the couch. 

The Milkovich kids didn't have a mother anymore, so Mandy kind of did what she could to fill that void, in a way. She was good to her brothers, even though she drove them crazy sometimes.

 

* * *

 

Mickey probably should have been looking where he was going, but instead he was looking down at his phone; Colin texted him about the Halloween party in a couple weeks, asking if he was going.

It turned out to be Ian’s tall body that he had slammed into; in reflex, Mickey’s hands flew out and shoved the taller man away, his whole body pulsing with pain radiating from his left side.

“Fucking watch yourself,” Mickey hissed, holding his ribs.

“What happened to you?” Ian’s big puppy eyes were wide, searching Mickey’s face, dragging up and down his body, assessing what damage he could.

He hated that look: pity. “What’s it fucking look like? Mind your own damn business.”

It was better that way, just walking away from the redhead. It wasn’t Ian’s fault that Mickey couldn't keep his face out of his head, having to fucking draw him. It wasn’t Ian’s fault that Terry found the fucking drawings. 

But even still, Mickey couldn't look at him right then, didn't want to stand around and explain that even at almost twenty fucking years old, not living at home anymore, his fucking dad was _still_ beating on him. It was fucking ridiculous and the amount of shame that he felt because of it made him sick to his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Mickey wasn’t really a party person. The loud music, that was fine. The drinking and weed being passed around, that was fine too. Mickey probably would have been fine with the amount of people as well, but the fact that it was a _college_ party, at the college that his dad coached fucking football at, turned into a nightmare sometimes.

A lot of people assumed that he gave a shit about football. He didn’t, not since he was in a little league team that his dad coached and it proved to be the worst shit he’d ever had to endure. If anyone thought being Terry Milkovich’s kid was bad enough, they had no idea what it was like to be his kid _and_ be coached by him too. So, needless to say, after little league, Mickey hung up his uniform for good.

However, this annoyance of being one of the sons of the Defensive Line coach could also have it’s perks. People thought they _knew_ him, wanted to introduce him to their friends, wanted to share their joint with him, buy him a beer. 

It was all very weird and uncomfortable… but also, being introduced to other peoples friends and shit like that… it opened up certain opportunities. 

Which sounded _way_ creepier and worse than it was. Mickey wasn’t trying to exchange empty promises for sex, or anything like that. And if it did come up, he shut that shit down real fucking quick. Mickey was just looking for a little release. A little escape —just a hook-up.

So this is how Mickey ended up with his hand fisted in a head full of short hair, in an empty bedroom that Mickey could have sworn could have been set up by God himself. Because there was some kind of tank in the room, with this weird-ass lizard thing in it and a red light. And the red light casted over across the guy’s dark hair, making it look _somewhat_ like Ian’s hair. Somewhat —not exactly, but it was enough to play pretend for a moment.

After the guy was finished with Mickey, (his name was Blake or Brad or something with a B, Mickey forgot) he was about to return the favor, but Blake/Brad shook his head, and grinned, stumbling out of the bedroom. 

Mickey walked out behind him, zipping his fly back up, coming down from his little mental-escape where it was Blake/Brad swallowing him down, it was his redheaded problem. Blake/Brad was wiping at his mouth, smoothing his hands down his bare chest, collecting himself while Mickey felt this dread curl in his stomach.

Not even ten feet away from him, in the hallway, was Ian. Obviously Ian knew what just happened in that bedroom, you’d have to be a fucking moron not to put two and two together. But Mickey wondered, irrationally, if Ian knew that Mickey was thinking of _him_ while he was getting blown by some random guy he met probably twenty fucking minutes ago?

Mickey really wished that Ian hadn't seen this. It felt weird, especially since Mickey had kind of shot Ian down at the bar. But that was different. Ian wanted a boyfriend, Mickey could see it in those puppy eyes, see it written all over that lethal face. Mickey couldn't give him that, knew that at this point, if they did hook up, he’d want more. And that… that was dangerous territory.

So Mickey did all he could in that moment. He lifted his chin in greeting and followed Blake/Brad down the hallway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know whats weird? Explaining how to hit a bong, step by step; but finally, my marijuana dabbling comes in handy. Writing high-Mickey is super fun.  
> (Did you catch & enjoy my Kronk moment? Because I did. I'm sorry, I had to, Mickey was high, there was no way around it.)
> 
> Also, fuck you Terry.
> 
> Also also, I've been really digging the whole Irish Twins thing for Mickey and Mandy. Not that it even matters, but... I mean... details? Yeah. Details.


	3. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You got a little boner in your eye, bro. Might wanna watch yourself,” Colin grinned. “You into gingers now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: (idk adding it just in case??) Older Brothers Milkovich ragging on Mickey -not mean, you just know how brothers are.

Mickey knocked back his fourth shot of whiskey, feeling it burn all the way down. Colin thumped him hard on the back and Iggy made kind of a loud grunting sound after taking his own shot.

“Where is the sister?” Colin asked, motioning for the bartender to pour another round, “I thought she was hanging out?”

“Nah man,” Mickey said, “She’s with that guy.”

“What guy?” Iggy asked.

“Some guy she’s been fucking. Rich prick with a Benz,” Mickey shrugged. He rubbed a hand over his chest; he was all warm on the inside, the whiskey relaxing the muscles in his back and neck.

Colin lit up a cigarette, “Rich prick with a Benz, huh?”

"Mmhm," Mickey nodded. "She says he's that fucking old family money type. Takes her to nice hotels and all that shit."

"Takes her to hotels?" Colin's eyebrows raised, "Like what, she ain't good enough to take home or something -the fuck?"

"They're just fucking," Mickey rolled his eyes. 

“Good ol' Mands,” Iggy said. “She's a _bad_ bitch though. She can take care of herself. We got her that baton and that fucking... that stabby key-chain thing.”

“Yeah but _we’re_ the ones who's gotta fucking cover her ass when dad finds out. And you know how she picks out the shittiest guys she can find,” Colin exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Who’s this prick? What’s his name?”

“Fuck if I know, you think she tells me that shit?” Mickey laughed. "She knows better after we fucking had to deal with the last one."

"That was different," Iggy held up a finger. "Motherfucker was a class-A bag of dicks."

A shock of red distracted him as the bartender poured another round of shots for them. Mickey paused, shot glass resting against his lips as he watched Ian walk past; it didn't even look like he saw him standing there, then again the guy looked a bit distracted.

“Ay, Mighty Mouse, where’d you go?”

Mickey scowled at a grinning Iggy, “Fuck you, man. You know I hate that shit.” He took his shot; it burned a little less this time, spreading out all over his body, blurring the edges a little bit.

“You got a little boner in your eye, bro. Might wanna watch yourself,” Colin grinned. “You into gingers now?”

Mickey took a pull from Iggy’s cigarette, elbowing Colin in the ribs, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself before I shove that shot glass in your fucking eye.”

“Aw come on bro, take that dick outta your ass,” Iggy laughed, reaching over to sloppily run a hand over his head. “Chill out.”

"You're a fucking prick," Mickey shoved Iggy’s hand away, flipping off both of his laughing brothers as he walked to the bathroom. Fucking idiots, he needed to be more careful around them. 

Mickey was fortunate to have siblings who didn't give a shit who he liked to fuck. But to think that somehow that gave him special _‘don’t make Mickey feel weird about it’_ treatment, was a pipe dream. 

In hindsight, it was probably a good thing, them ragging on him about it, that meant that it honestly wasn't an issue. If it was, it would never be brought up. That didn’t mean that it wasn't awkward though.

He swayed a little in the narrow hallway, but he wasn't drunk. Mickey could drink a fair amount —okay, Mickey could knock back quite a lot. But when it was good whiskey on an empty stomach… that’s when the swaying started.

As soon as he got to the bathroom door, it opened and Ian walked out, creating this little traffic jam. Mickey was feeling pretty good and Ian looked really good in that blue shirt he was wearing. 

Something came over him when they started the _let-me-get-out-of-the-way_ shuffle dance. Mickey stepped where Ian stepped, crowding his space a little, knowing he was being a fucking asshole, but the face Ian made, half embarrassed, half annoyed… it was fucking adorable.

“Sorry,” the redhead mumbled, his jaw clenching.

Ah shit. Mickey reached out and grabbed Ian’s upper arm, “Ay, I’m just messing with you, Gallagher.”

Ian’s face went all sharp, his eyes narrowing at Mickey as he flattened himself against the wall of the hallway, “I know.”

Ah _shit_. Mickey raised his brows, opening his mouth to say _something_ , but he closed it, shaking his head. Mickey walked into the bathroom, leaning his hands on the sink. His blurry little tipsy feeling was turning into a rock at the bottom of his stomach. 

What the fuck was he doing —how big of an asshole was he? Jesus Christ, why did he just keep  _fucking_ with him? It was like every time Mickey got around the redhead, he just couldn't help himself, he _had_ to be a prick, and mess with him. 

Well, he knew _why_ , of course, Mickey wasn't _that_ unaware of himself and why he did the things he did . 

But, he couldn't be the kind of guy that Ian wanted. He couldn't give in to that, as tempting as it was, it was a bad fucking idea. And Ian… yeah, he was tempting as hell, made the idea of being _that guy_ tempting as hell too. But Ian deserved someone who _could_ be that guy. 

Mickey had to shut this down. He just wished he wanted to, he wished he could. Every time he saw the redhead, Mickey felt weak. It wasn’t an entirely bad weak though. It wasn't weak like he was around his father. It was like Ian had somehow wrenched his way under Mickey’s armor and little by little was loosening it up, relieving all that pressure.

But that relief could be dangerous, could make him reckless. His dad only caught him fucking another guy once -he ended up in the fucking hospital because of it. And that was just fucking. If his dad found out that there was something _more_ going on with someone… shit, Mickey didn't even want to think about what would happen.

 

* * *

 

[Mandy 3:45 PM] Just saw your gorgeous boy walking into of the gym.  
[Mandy 3:45 PM] He is so hot. Tell me you’ve done yourself a favor and hit that.  
[Mandy 3:46 PM] Or find out if he swings both ways, so I can hit it. Woof.

[Mickey 3:49 PM] Wtf is wrong with you.  
[Mickey 3:50 PM] You gotta chill with that shit.   
[Mickey 3:50 PM] Colin is about to go all mother hen. 

[Mandy 3:51 PM] Colin can chill.  
[Mandy 3:52 PM] Your boy’s got a nice ass.

[Mickey 3:53 PM] Stop calling him my boy, please.  
[Mickey 3:53 PM] And I know.

[Mandy 3:54 PM] You can't see me. But I'm making the I told you so face.  
[Mandy 3:54 PM] You're so into him.

[Mickey 3:55 PM] Fuck. Off.

 

* * *

 

Mickey was starting to think he was a glutton for punishment. He saw Ian at the library, headphones on, nose buried in countless notebooks. His concentrated face was nice to look at. Mickey wondered what that face would look like from underneath, no headphones, much less clothing…

His legs were working independently from his chill. So Mickey found himself sitting down in the chair across from Ian, reaching a hand in between the redhead’s face and his notebook to snap his fingers. Because he was an asshole like that, evidently.

Ian looked up at him, “Usually when someone has headphones on, that means they want to be left alone.”

Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip to keep from giving the redhead a sarcastic smile; he shrugged instead.

Ian sighed and took his headphones off, “You need something?”

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Mickey sniffed, shifting in his seat.

“I got a lot of work to do.”

“What’re you working on?” Mickey asked. He was already sitting down, Ian already had his headphones off and wasn't working anymore… might as well ask.

“Why do you care?” Ian frowned.

Mickey pulled a face, “Shit man, sorry… didn’t know it was fucking privileged information.”

Ian sighed, running a hand over his hair, “English.”

Quiet settled between them. Ian was staring at Mickey, so Mickey stared right back, taking advantage out of the situation. Weirdly, it wasn't an awkward silence. Normally, if something like two people just staring at each other like this happened, it turned real awkward, real fast. Not with Ian though.

“So, what’s your major?” Ian finally asked.

“Business,” Mickey answered before holding up his paint-stained hands, “Minoring in Studio Art though.”

Ian grinned slow, his dimples creasing, “That’s cool.”

Mickey shrugged, “Drives my dad crazy, so it’s worth it.”

Terry really did not like the whole art-thing (too gay, obviously, because art is gay, _that’s a thing_ ), but it was something that was all for Mickey. Something that his dad could never interfere with. So if that meant that he had to take business as a major, then so be it. It was the one easy compromise that Mickey ever got out of his dad.

“Daddy issues,” Ian teased, “Sexy.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and smirked. He had no idea. “Fuck off.”

The way Ian smiled did things to Mickey. He wanted him to smile like that all the time, like he’d seen a particularly amazing sunrise. Suddenly, he wished he could stay in this bubble, in the library, just hang out at this table and not worry about any other bullshit.

“You wanna grab a burger or something?”

The bubble exploded around them, singeing Mickey’s skin, kicking him back into reality. His face fell as he sighed, “I told you man—”

“Let me get this straight. You can get sucked off by some random juice-head at a party, but getting something to eat with me is a little too gay?” Ian cut him off; he huffed a dry laugh that made Mickey hold his breath. He was not expecting that.

“You know, it’d be one thing if you weren’t into me. But you’re the one that came over here to talk to me. And you’re the one who keeps eye-fucking me so hard, that I’m worried that you’re gonna start wearing holes in my clothes. So…” Ian shrugged, not needing to finish.

Mickey felt this odd sensation of his blood starting to boil, his stomach dropping and his breath being sucked out of his lungs. So he looked down at the table, not able to face Ian at that moment. He wished it could be different. 

Needing to strengthen his armor, Mickey said, “Fuck you, man.”

Ian didn’t get it. He didn't get it because he didn't _know_ , but still… he didn't get it.

Ian left. 

 

* * *

 

Over Thanksgiving, Mickey met this guy named Jordan at a party, who _miraculously_ was a redhead and was _deep_ -in-the-closet; they fucked in Jordan’s dorm-room, because his roommate was out of town. 

The whole set up would have normally been kind of perfect for Mickey, except for the fact that it made him feel kind of gross afterwards. Jordan was kind of a selfish top anyways, and his hair was leaning more towards orange than red. 

Everything was just a mess.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Stabby key-chain thing](http://www.amazon.com/Alberts-home-Brutus-Defense-Keychain/dp/B00NURKGJK)
> 
>  
> 
> Having lots of fun with The Brothers Milkovich.


	4. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His teacher wanted a fucking self portrait, a representation of how he saw himself? Fine. She’d get her portrait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Terry & what comes with him.

Sometimes Mickey wondered if his dad put a fucking LoJack on him. He was unlocking his car when Terry came out of fucking nowhere, his usual frown settled squarely on his face. Mickey sighed, leaning his hip against the side of his car, waiting for whatever it was his dad was going to scream at him for this time.

“I need you to make an appearance at a benefit.”

“Why?” Mickey sighed.

“Because I’m fucking telling you, that’s why,” Terry folded his arms under his chest.

“Well, when is it?”

“The thirteenth, at seven,” Terry said, “Black-tie.”

Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip, not wanting to say what he had to say, “I can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?” Terry asked, his face starting to bloom red.

“I have a show,” Mickey’s eyes dropped to the ground, not wanting to see his dad’s face as he continued. He was kind of over all of this shit, kind of careless with his tone, “Should be proud, it’s a big deal. Fancy gallery and everything.”

“This is more important than some faggy art show,” Terry scoffed.

“Not to me,” Mickey mumbled, immediately wanting to take back the words.

“Excuse me?”

Mickey stayed silent. He was so sick of this. He was sick of being a fucking adult, but still living under his fathers thumb. Everyone else’s parents were over the fucking moon proud about their kids getting into this damn art show. 

Not Terry Milkovich. Not when there were trophies to be won and footballs to be thrown and _women_ to be fucked.

“It took a lot to get into this show,” Mickey said, keeping his voice low. 

Terry leaned forward at the waist, jabbing a finger into Mickey’s chest, “I don’t give a fuck if you had to blow the director of the fucking MOMA, I said you need to go to this benefit, that means you fucking go! We had an agreement, Mickey! You gonna go back on your word? That’s not how men do business, boy!”

Stupidly, Mickey huffed a small laugh, “Fuck, dad, I didn’t even know you knew what the MOMA was.”

“You better watch yourself,” Terry warned.

“Can’t Colin or Iggy go? They actually give a shit about football,” Mickey sighed, his shoulders tense with anger. This wasn’t fucking right. “I’m not skipping out on this show, I’m one of the fucking artists that’s being featured! I’ll go to the next stupid fucking benefit!”

He earned a sharp smack to the side of his face for that. It was hard, so hard that Mickey stumbled back, covering his cheek with his hand. Terry then reached out with his big hand and grabbed onto the back of Mickey’s neck, squeezing hard as he drew him closer.

“If you _ever_ take that tone with me again,” Terry started, his voice deadly low, “I will do you worse than when I caught you with your dick up that little twink’s ass. Do you understand me?”

Mickey flinched, nodding his head. 

“I’ll have Colin go with me. You’re going to the next one, I don’t care if you have a show or not, understand?”

“Yeah,” Mickey exhaled, taking a step back when his dad let him go.

“Dinner Saturday night. Or do you have a prior engagement?” Terry asked, his voice full with that patronizing edge.

“I’ll be there,” Mickey said.

“And shave that fucking scruff off your face, you look like a fucking idiot,” was Terry’s last dig as he walked away.

 

* * *

 

Mickey paced in front of his canvas, pulling hard on his cigarette. His skin felt like it was trying to crawl off of his body, his spine, like someone had fused a hot metal bar to it. It had been a few days since the parking lot, but he was still worked up.

Fuck self portraits. Fuck this assignment. Fuck this art show. (Not really, fuck this art show, but mostly just fuck self portraits. The art show was an amazing opportunity, if not completely fucking daunting and freaking him the hell out. _Anyways_.)

He had paint everywhere, all over his hands and arms and clothes —Mickey wasn't usually so grossly messy when he was painting. But this shit he’d painted over at least three times already and he’d been careless about opening paint tubes and grabbing at brushes. 

He was going to be kicking himself later for how poorly he was treating his brushes, digging them roughly to his palette, dunking them harshly into the jar of black water to clean them between colors.

Mickey stared hard at the unfinished painting. _What have I told you about this faggot shit?!_

He had the background, the body, the hair —everything but the face. It was just that every time Mickey looked in the mirror for reference, all he could think about was driving his fist into the glass. _I will do you worse than when I caught you with your dick up that little twink’s ass._

His teacher wanted a fucking self portrait, a representation of how he saw himself? Fine. She’d get her portrait. 

His eyes stung, heart caught in his throat. Mickey clenched his teeth hard and pressed his hand to the face of the portrait, smudging the tacky-wet paint around, distorting the image until it was peeling and bumpy and smeared. Then he reached for his biggest paintbrush, carelessly shoved it in white paint, and marked over the painting, whiting out most of the face with messy, broad strokes. 

_I will do you worse than when I caught you with your dick up that little twink’s ass._

He finished off by pulling on his cigarette and exhaling a big, rolling cloud of smoke over the surface of the canvas; his lip curled back slightly in disgust. There. Perfect.

 

* * *

 

Every once in a while, when Mickey needed to breathe, he walked around campus. This was one of those times. He pulled on a cigarette, wandering around the grounds, not really aiming to find anything particular.

But he stopped when he saw a shock of red hair heading towards the library. He knew that color red, knew those shoulders because he remembered the exact angle of the way they sloped. 

Ian stopped right next to the front doors, doing that quick hand-hold-back-pat thing with the same guy that Mickey’d seen him with at Shooters a couple times. He assumed the guy was either just a friend, or maybe a relative. It was hard to tell —they definitely weren’t _together_ though, that much was obvious.

Mickey was far enough away to stay where he was without being seen. He stopped walking, leaning against a concrete column of an overhang. It felt kind of weird —actually it felt _really_ fucking weird, like he was a stalker or some shit, watching the two of them talking.

Ian was quite a bit a ways away, but Mickey still watched the way his mouth moved, the way he ran a hand over his hair, his brow furrowed. He still didn't know too much about the guy, but Mickey was getting too close. Drawing him, thinking about him… jerking off to the thought of him. Jesus, even hooking up with a redhead over Thanksgiving just to tide him over.

He didn't know if it was all about this obvious physical attraction or what (it was _or what_ ; Mickey knew that it was _or what_ , but he couldn't admit that to himself just yet), but Mickey was… it sounded so fucking weird, but he was hungry for Ian. This kind of ravenous, frustrated _hunger_. Mickey just fell deeper and deeper into the problem that was Ian Gallagher.

After the cigarette was finished, Ian followed the other guy into the library. And there was no more reason for him to stand there like a jackass, so Mickey kept walking.

 

* * *

 

[Mandy 7:21 PM] What time does your show start?

[Mickey 7:22 PM] You’re not going.

[Mandy 7:23 PM] I know. I need an alibi.

[Mickey 7:25 PM] Uh why?

[Mandy 7:26 PM] Because I told dad I was stopping by your show and probably wont be able to go to his stupid benefit thing.

[Mickey 7:28 PM] Where are you going to be?

[Mandy 7:30 PM] With Adam.

[Mickey 7:31 PM] Who the fuck is Adam? That guy you been fucking?

[Mandy 7:32 PM] Yeah.

[Mickey 7:33 PM] Gross.

[Mandy 7:34 PM] Oh grow up.

[Mickey 7:36 PM] The show starts at 6:30

[Mandy 7:37 PM] Okay, thanks.

[Mickey 7:40 PM] So what’s this guys last name?

[Mandy 7:41 PM] It’s Adam None Of Your Fucking Business.

[Mickey 7:42 PM] Weird last name.  
[Mickey 7:42 PM] Is that German?

 

* * *

 

The running theme for the show was _perception_. Ten students, three paintings each, and everyone _had_ to include their self portrait, non-negotiable. Needless to say, Mickey felt like he needed a couple of strong drinks not even an hour into the fucking show. It only got worse when his eyes darted around and fell on a tall cap of red hair working it’s way through the crowd. 

Fucking seriously? _Seriously?_ Mickey tried to give the lady talking to him his full attention, he really did, but it was _real_ fucking hard when the red hair was slowly making it’s way towards his work.

Ian evidently hadn't seen Mickey standing off to the side. He was too busy staring at the painting of Iggy and Colin —the one where Mickey had painted them in full badass mode, because that’s how he saw them. 

Iggy and Colin were equally the goofiest and the most badass dudes he knew. Iggy’s BEAT DOWN knuckle tattoos pushed together out in front of him, cigarette hanging out of the corner of a snarled smile. Colin’s affinity for his shotgun, perched up on his shoulder, the other hand holding a beer bottle. That was them, his brothers.

And then Ian moved to the second painting, Mandy. It was based off a memory from a year ago. They’d been hanging out at this house party. Mandy took the only available plastic chair, so he had to sit on the fucking floor. He said something that made her lean forward, resting her elbows on her knees and flip him off, the other hand holding a cigarette. It was such a _Mandy_ move that he subconsciously ingrained the image into his memory. That had been a good party, from what he could remember.

Ian’s eyes scanned all over the third painting —his self portrait. He even took a step closer to the painting, his head tilting a little to the side, he looked like he was trying to investigate a fucking crime scene, not just take it all in and accept it for what it was. (But at the same time, Mickey could almost appreciate the redhead’s intense stare, his trying to figure Mickey out based on a painting. It was kind of fascinating to watch; kind of made Mickey feel all warm.) 

In hindsight, he probably should have just sucked it up and painted a generic portrait. That had been a bad day though, and yeah… he let it out. He gave his teacher what she wanted. On some level, he was somewhat proud of his portrait —aesthetically, it was nice to look at, interesting. On another, he knew what his portrait meant, knew that it "wasn’t okay" to mark out his face like that. 

He finally stood next to Ian, looking at the painting of himself. His perception of himself. The professionals would say _no self worth_. They’d say insecure, self-hating, ashamed, in pain, lost, drowning. All those over-the-top dramatic adjectives. Maybe they were right. Because that’s how he felt a lot of the time — _without a face_.

“Didn’t know you were into this shit,” Mickey said, trying to keep it light.

“It’s a recent development,” he replied, looking over at him. “These are amazing. You’re really talented.”

Mickey pressed his lips together to stop himself from grinning like an idiot, “Thanks, man.” 

He wanted to get away from his self portrait, so Mickey moved over to Mandy’s painting, “You met her, right? Mandy, my sister.”

Ian’s eyes went all wide, his shoulders falling a little, “Oh shit. I thought she was your girlfriend or something.”

Mickey pulled a face. Ew, what the fuck? “Why the fuck would you think that?”

Ian scratched the back of his neck, “She said you were territorial.”

Immediately, Mickey’s eyebrows shot up. No shit she said he was territorial —because he fucking was. He didn't _share_ , didn't like other people touching his things, he was kind of a selfish prick like that, but whatever. The fact that he felt like he had some sort of small  _claim_ on the taller man didn't escape him, he was fully aware of that shit, but he still chose to ignore it. Because he couldn't have Ian.

He tried to let Ian in on the obvious, giving him a once over, waiting for it to click.  Finally Ian flushed almost as red as his hair, letting Mickey know that he understood. Good.

“And for the record, those are my brothers, Iggy and Colin.”

Ian gave him a little amused, narrowed eyed look in response to that before he nodded towards the third painting, “And this is you.”

The grin slipped off of Mickey’s face as he steeled himself, ready for the onslaught of sad eyes and pity sighs. But they never came. 

Instead Ian asked, “So do you just paint?”

He shrugged in response, “I draw, but I’ve always just really liked painting.”

“I’d like to uh…” Ian paused; he shrugged, changing whatever he was going to say. Mickey felt this guilt settle in the pit of his stomach. “I’m sure you’re drawings are really good too.”

“You smoke?” Mickey asked, needing to get out of there, hoping that Ian would follow him, maybe they could just chill outside. Maybe it wouldn't be so fucking hard, away from the crowd.

Ian nodded.

“You wanna go smoke? I need a fucking break from this shit. People asking me stupid fucking questions, it’s a nightmare.”

The redhead grinned, “Yeah okay.”

It was so quiet outside, compared to the soft roar of murmuring and clinking glasses of the gallery crowd. Ian stood pretty close to him. Mickey didn't mind; kinda wished he would stand closer. But the redhead’s face was all worried looking or irritated, something like that. Mickey furrowed his brows at him.

But Ian shook his head, “It’s just cold.”

Somehow Mickey knew it was a lie, but he let it go. He pulled on his cigarette, watching a couple cars drive past, “So why’d you come tonight?”

“I was curious, I guess.”

Mickey huffed a laugh, “About art? Shit man, there’s a museum—”

“About you,” Ian cut him off, stilling Mickey straight to his bones. The redhead pulled on his cigarette and shifted a bit on his feet. 

Mickey watched him, but Ian wasn’t looking back. He was looking everywhere else but at Mickey. So he took that time to try to figure him out, taking in the redhead’s height _again_ , for the countless time. 

Mandy used to say he was like a human scanner, constantly taking his mental pictures from every angle available, building people inside his head. It was probably the most accurate assumption of what he did. Because Mickey could probably draw Ian from almost every angle now, just from memory alone.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? 

It had to be done, once and for all. “Here’s the thing Red—”

Ian breathed out this bitter sounding laugh, his head snapping to look at him, “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I even doing? This is just sad at this point.”

It wasn’t sad, but he didn't tell him that. Ian made a move to walk away, but Mickey raised a hand to stop him. He just shook his head, “Maybe let me finish this time, a’ight? I can’t give you…” fuck, this was happening, wasn't it? “I can’t give you what you’re looking for. It’s just how it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

Yeah, it was happening. Cards on the table time.

“Man,” Mickey rolled his eyes, “You got _boyfriend_ written all over that pretty fucking face.” But pretty didn't even come close to how fucking _lethal_ that man was.

Ian frowned, his cheeks tinging pink, looking like he wanted to either take a swing or get the fuck out of there.

“I ain’t saying that’s a bad thing,” Mickey said. “I’m not. I’m just saying that I can’t give you that. And I know that makes me sound like a fucking dick, but it’s just… it’s just how it is.”

Ian pulled a face, “Fuck you, Mickey. Are you seriously gonna stand there and look me in the fucking eyes and pull the _I don’t do relationships_ card? You don't know shit about me or what I want.”

But he did. He knew exactly what Ian wanted. Because it was what Mickey wanted too. The difference was that Ian could have all that —he could have all that ten times over, and then some.

“Fuck. You know what, it’s not actually all about you, Gallagher,” Mickey sighed, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. He exhaled hard, shaking his head, trying to force the words out, “Want me to be straight with you?” 

“That would be fucking _great_. Because so far, I don’t even know which way is up, with you,” Ian curled his lip back in a snarl.

“Fine,” Mickey sniffed, “You and me… you know… fuck,” he wiped his hand over his mouth, having a hard time believing that this conversation was actually fucking happening. That is what the redhead did to him. Talk. Explain. Admit. 

_I will do you worse than when I caught you with your dick up that little twink’s ass._

“It’s about what I want but can’t have. A’ight? You ain’t just a fuck, Ian, okay. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Please. Please understand. Mickey hoped, with everything he had that Ian would understand. Mickey was trying. He was _trying_ to lay it all out there, trying to be fucking honest. _Please_ understand.

Ian reached out and curled his fingers in the front of Mickey’s jacket, “Mick…”

Jesus Christ, the way he said that, the way he said _Mick_. Like a promise. Mickey shook his head, wishing that Ian wouldn't do that, wouldn't touch him, wouldn't try to draw him close. Mickey wasn’t certain he wouldn't give in. The moment he gave in, he’d be fucked. That hunger for Ian growled and scratched down his insides, begging for more of that simple touch.

So Mickey carefully took Ian’s hand off of his jacket, their fingers tangling together for such an impossibly short moment, but the touch was like taking the biggest hit off of a blunt that Mickey had ever had. Immediate, dragging him sweetly down, feeding the hunger. A major fucking problem.

“I have to go back inside and deal with this shit. Thanks for stopping by, I appreciate it,” as he said it, he didn't feel like he was speaking. He barely felt like he was in control anymore, it was just automatic. Like that lie — _I ain’t like that._

 

* * *

 

Mickey sighed, adjusting the six pack of beer under his arm. He knocked on the door in front of him and waited for Mandy to answer. But it wasn’t Mandy who answered, it was some tall, Abercrombie looking fuck with no shirt and a cigarette hanging from his lips. Mickey pulled a face, double checking the apartment number, even though he knew he had the right door. 

Abercrombie arched a brow at him, “Can I help you?”

“Can you help me?” Mickey narrowed his eyes, “Can I fucking help _you_ —who the fuck are you?”

Abercrombie folded his arms under his chest, “Who are you?”

Uh, no. “The fuck outta my way,” Mickey was about two fucking seconds from punching this motherfucker in the throat, “Ay, Mandy!” he called into the apartment, shoving his way through the door, ignoring Abercrombie’s protest.

His sister scrambled out of her bedroom, hastily tying a robe around herself, “Oh shit. Mickey, what are you doing?”

“Who the fuck is this?” Mickey pointed at shirtless-wonder.

“Adam,” Mandy sighed impatiently. She looked over at the guy, her face full of apology, “I’m sorry… this is my brother, Mickey. Mickey, Adam.”

Adam just nodded over at Mickey, pulling at his cigarette. Mickey shook his head, rolling his eyes, “Hate to break up this little party, but I gotta talk to my sister.”

“Jesus Mickey,” Mandy gritted out, “Could you _not_ do this right now?”

Mickey kept his eyes on Adam, his eyebrows perched high, “That means get the fuck out. This is a family issue, I need you to leave.”

“Mickey!” Mandy reached over and shoved at his shoulder.

Mickey just shrugged. No, he was not backing down from this. He rarely went and sought out his sister to talk about shit, if ever. So yeah, that meant Abercrombie was going to have to fucking leave. He didn't care if he was being rude. Family over fuck buddies.

Adam and Mandy exchanged glances. Mandy’s shoulders fell, “Can I call you later?”

“Sure,” Adam shrugged. 

Mickey waited a good five minutes, beer still under his arm, while Adam went into Mandy’s bedroom to get dressed or whatever; he came back out with a suggestive little smirk for Mandy. Mickey’s eyebrows seemed to have taken permanent residence at the top of his forehead. This dude wasn't going to last long; what a fucking tool. 

Adam wrapped one of his Abercrombie arms around Mandy, right in front of Mickey, even looking over at him with this _yeah I’m fucking your little sister every chance I get_ glint in his eyes. Then he left.

“ _That_ is the dude you’re banging? Really?” Mickey huffed at his sister, making his way towards the couch in the living room. “You really know how to pick ‘em, Mands.”

Mandy rolled her eyes, blatantly ignoring him, “What is the family issue?”

“It’s about uh…” Mickey sighed, falling back into the couch cushions, “About my art show.”

“That is not a family issue.”

“Am I not a family member? It’s my issue.”

“Fine,” Mandy said, sitting next to him, “What about your art show?”

Mickey cracked open a can of beer, handing it over to his sister. She took it while he opened one for himself. “Ian showed up.”

“Who’s Ian?”

He took a couple chugs of his beer, trying to find it in himself to do something he knew he’d regret like _share_ with Mandy, “The redhead.”

“Oh shit,” Mandy breathed, “What happened?”

“Told him that I can’t… you know,” Mickey sighed, “I can’t be what he wants.”

“What does he want?” she asked.

Mickey gave his sister a look, “You’ve seen him. The fuck you think he wants? He’s a boyfriend guy. I can’t do that shit.”

“Why not?” Mandy drew her brows together.

“Relationships are worse than fucking,” Mickey snorted into his beer can. “You remember what happened when dad caught me with that kid in high school?”

Mandy curled her legs under her, resting her elbow on the back of the couch. Her face fell, “Yeah, I remember. Do you... do you still have the scars—”

“Yeah,” Mickey cut her off. “That was just fucking, Mands. You have any idea what he’d do if he found out,” Mickey stopped himself, shaking his head. Did she have any idea what their dad would do if he found out that Mickey had feelings for another guy? Actual fucking feelings —like he had for Ian?

Mandy reached over and smoothed a hand over the top of his shoulder, “How long are you gonna last like this?”

Mickey huffed a laugh, shaking his head once again. He had no idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My babies :(
> 
> I cannot thank you enough for all the comments and love for this and BWAF! Love you all Xx


	5. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian smirked at him. Mickey shook his head, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he settled down at his easel, trying not to watch as Ian shed his jeans and boxers.

Mickey didn't even think, he just reacted as soon as he saw the back of Ian in the doorway of his Studio Art classroom. Immediately he knew why he was there, what he was doing, and Mickey just saw red. And not in the good red, not the good red that he associated with Ian and his stupid fucking hair. No. This was _not_ okay.

He grabbed Ian’s shoulder and yanked him out of the door, back into the hallway, “The fuck are you doing here?” he gritted through his teeth.

“Making a hundred bucks,” the redhead shrugged. Actually stood there and fucking shrugged.

Mickey shook his head, “Bad move, Red. I thought I made it fucking clear—”

“Not everything is about you,” Ian cut him off. “I need the money and this is a quick hundred bucks.”

There he was again, slipping under Mickey’s armor, lessing that pressure, being a fucking problem. Mickey fought the grin, but it slipped, just barely, “You’re a persistent motherfucker, aren’t you.”

Ian didn't say anything back. His puppy eyes and crooked jaw set in this defiant _yeah so what if I am_ look that hit Mickey right in the fucking chest. He had to give him credit though, the guy had fucking balls, pulling this shit after Mickey had made it very clear that even though he wanted it to happen… it still wasn't going to happen.

Maybe that had been his mistake, telling Ian that he couldn't have what he wanted. Couldn't have Ian. Maybe he should have pushed harder; maybe he should have lied. But he didn't want to lie to Ian; he couldn’t. 

So this right here… Ian going so far as to be a fucking nude model for his class? Yeah. That was something that was _indeed_ happening. And that was going to create an even bigger problem for Mickey. It was the ultimate Hail Mary or something. _Here I fucking am in all my glory, in a room full of fucking strangers_. Mickey would never be able to do that shit.

He rolled his eyes, “God you’re an idiot,” he mumbled. “So you finally showing me the goods, is that what this is? Showing me what I’m missing out on?”

The redhead smirked, dipping his head down next to Mickey’s ear; Mickey could feel the heat of his skin radiating onto his cheek, but he forced his face to stay passive.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re missing out on,” Ian’s voice was low, his breath hot on Mickey’s skin. It was the kind of low voice that came with bruises on hips and a hand wrapped around your throat. Mickey swallowed

He could feel his skin shuddering from his breath, could feel this thrill threaten to run up his spine. Mickey held his breath, clenched his fist at his side, tried to center himself, tried to focus. 

But then the redhead dipped a little bit lower and inhaled all nice and slow and Jesus fucking Christ why was that so fucking hot? Where did this kind of _game_ come from? Ian wasn’t all puppy eyes and dimples and a perpetual inability to be chill. That was abundantly clear. The coin that was Ian Gallagher fucking flipped, changing the whole _entire_ game.

“Mm, you smell good Mick.”

There it was again. Mick. He breathed out, steeling his body even though all he wanted to do at that very moment was drag this giant redheaded bastard into the nearest bathroom and drop to his fucking knees.

“See you in there,” Ian said, then walked into the classroom.

This was going to be hell. 

Mickey walked in just as everyone else was busy setting up at their easels, and Ian was pulling his shirt off. And he didn't really have the words for how fucking beautiful Ian’s body was; if the guy’s face was lethal, his body was a straight up health-hazard. Mickey was sure he was going to have a fucking stroke. He kept his face passive, but on the inside, all concept of chill went out of the fucking window.

Ian was lean and fit and filled out in the best fucking way, obviously taking good care of himself. Jesus, the cut of his hips, those freckles, the way his jeans just hung there, the shoulders and collarbones and okay Mickey had to reel it in.

Ian smirked at him. Mickey shook his head, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he settled down at his easel, trying not to watch as Ian shed his jeans and boxers. 

But the thing was, this _was_ an art class and he was _technically_ supposed to get a good look at his subject. And Ian had these powerful looking legs, and even though he had his hands covering himself… well, there was no hiding _that_. Christ. 

Mickey knew he was being really fucking unprofessional, he wasn’t supposed to be making mental porn of Ian (the guy looked like he could really throw Mickey around, which was just completely _doing it_ for him). And honestly, Mickey wasn’t a size-queen but… Ian was fucking _packing_. He’d turn anyone into a size-queen.

Mickey’s teacher, Joy, positioned Ian, having him crouch down, folding in on himself, making those muscles move and strain a little under his skin. 

He had thought about painting Ian, but at the last minute… drawing him just seemed more personal, his hands being closer to the paper, mapping out the curve of his shoulders and bend of his elbow. Yeah. Fuck yeah.

 

* * *

 

Mickey decided that if Ian was going to play dirty, then he was too. He’d swiped the redhead’s beanie hat because it was the only thing that he could grab without anyone noticing. Then while Joy was busy talking to another student, he glanced around her desk —because the woman had no concept of organization and just left shit out in the open— saw Ian’s application and memorized his address. 

Yeah, he was entering new levels of stalker, but whatever. As far as Mickey was concerned, after Ian’s _not so little_ display today, the game was fucking on.

Mickey knocked. Ian answered, only sporting a pair of boxers, looking so fucking good that it really wasn't even remotely fair. 

“Shit, Mickey,” Ian folded his arms under his chest with wide eyes, like he was fucking scandalized that Mickey was seeing him dressed so indecently. Hilarious. He might as well have been clutching his pearls while saying _well, I never_.

“You left this,” Mickey said, holding out the black beanie.

“Thanks,” the redhead took it.

Their fingers brushed against each other, but Mickey held strong, because he had to, keeping his eyes on Ian’s face, forcing himself not to look anywhere else. Ian looked confused, his brows just barely drawing down at the center.

“You did good today,” Mickey gave a little noncommittal shrug.

“Thanks,” Ian lifted a corner of his mouth, “Do I get to see what you did?”

Mickey wet his lips, covering up his grin, “Maybe.”

“You wanna come in for a beer?” There was a noticeable shift in Ian's demeanor as he asked the question.

Nah, it wasn’t gonna happen that easy. “Probably not a good idea, you know… got some bullshit I gotta take care of for my business class.”

Ian nodded, his eyes dragging all over Mickey’s face and down his body and Mickey suddenly was going through what he’d been putting Ian through for this whole time. It made the back of his neck heat up, being stared at like that, like the redhead could see right to his fucking bones. The way he was looking at him, Ian might as well of had Mickey bent over the back of a couch.

Mickey clenched his jaw when Ian unfolded his arms and took a step closer to him, reducing the space between them to mere inches. But Mickey didn’t back down, keeping eye-contact, steeling himself, ignoring that bubble in his chest. 

God, even though they weren’t touching, it was still so… _intimate_ and sexy. It was new territory for Mickey, that slow burn in his belly, not only wanting to touch and taste every part of the redhead, but to just… _fuck_ … to just tangle up together and, god it hurt to even think this… lay together, fall asleep together, all that shit.

“Should probably get going,” Mickey said, not wanting to. He wondered if it would be too direct to just drop to his knees right there in the middle of Ian’s front door. Probably.

“Probably,” Ian breathed, his warm breath ghosting over Mickey’s face; he could taste cigarettes and coffee in the breath. Intentionally or not, Ian leaned forward just a bit, just barely, but enough for Mickey to feel something press against his hip.

He smirked, dropping his eyes straight down, absolutely loving the fact that Ian was losing all sense of chill. “I’ll go, so you can take care of that.”

The redhead sighed, his face quickly matching his hair.

Better yet. “You know what,” Mickey leaned forward, his nose ghosting against the crook of Ian’s neck. 

He pressed his lips together to keep from opening his mouth and tasting the flesh there. Instead he gave Ian a little dose of his own medicine and inhaled slow, taking in all of this soapy smell that was settled over what Mickey would later identify as just Ian. It made his mouth water, that hunger rearing it’s horny fucking head. When Mickey exhaled, Ian visibly shuddered.

“Mm,” Mickey hummed before he walked away.

 

* * *

 

“Ay, you gonna keep eye-fucking Red or are you gonna sink that eight?” Iggy grinned over at Mickey. Colin laughed with him.

Mickey’s whole body heated up, but for some fucking reason, he couldn't hide his own grin, “Yeah yeah, fuck you guys.”

He lined up his shot as his brothers laughed, Iggy reaching over to ruffle the back of Mickey’s hair, saying something about how little Mickey was growing up. Seriously, fuck them, they had no fucking clue.

“It’s good bro, we got your back,” Colin said, keeping relatively quiet.

Mickey took his shot, sinking the eight and ending that round. “Gotta take a piss.”

He was washing his hands when the bathroom door opened; Mickey looked up into the mirror, seeing Ian. He kept his eyes locked on the redhead, turning off the faucet and reaching for a handful of paper towels, trying to formulate what Ian might have been thinking.

The air was thick; Ian locked the bathroom door. Okay, so this was happening now? Mickey could get on board for that. His body was already tingling and firing up. Before he knew it, Ian was standing next to him, leaning his hip against the counter, puppy eyes darkening to wolf eyes as they studied Mickey’s face and body. Fucking hell, Mickey wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to handle this.

Then Ian reached over and took Mickey’s hand in his own, tracing his thumb over the FUCK lettering. The touch was soft and patient and curious. Mickey sighed in the back of his throat, his stomach dropping. His fingers curled lightly around Ian’s hold; his skin was cooler than his own, felt good against Mickey’s natural heat.

He wasn't used to being touched like that. Desperate, quiet fucks? Yeah. Being shoved against a brick wall face-first? Yeah. But _soft_ like this —soft and burning and _caressing_? That was uncharted territory. 

It did things to him, to his heart. Fluttering things that brought him back to that knowledge that he couldn't just fuck the redhead and be done with it. It wouldn't fucking work like that with him. It all came crashing down on him. Relationships are worse than fucking. And unfortunately, Mickey wanted more than fucking, when it came to Ian, even though he couldn't have it.

Ian leaned forward, coming in for a kiss. Mickey turned his head away, closing his eyes. He wanted to let him, but he couldn’t. All of this was so much already, that would have been like signing over his soul to have Ian’s lips on his. Mickey didn't really kiss —not on the mouth, at least. It made things complicated and Mickey wasn’t sure if he could let himself fall down that particular rabbit hole just yet.

“I don’t…” Mickey whispered, exhaling roughly, not knowing how to explain himself.

“It’s alright,” Ian whispered back. Mickey believed him.

Mickey felt a brush of lips against his neck and he was sure he was going to come undone right then again there. Ian breathed him in, pressing his lips harder against Mickey; Mickey leaned into it, his lips parting when Ian’s mouth slid up to just behind his ear.

He tightened his grip on Ian’s hand, wishing the redhead was pressed up against his back, against his ass, pushing him into the counter, pushing his jeans and underwear down, fully fucking owning him. Fuck, this was so out of his control, Mickey wasn’t even sure he’d be able to resist if Ian wanted to fuck right then and there.

“I’ll let you get back to your brothers,” Ian whispered against Mickey’s skin, untangling his fingers from his hold. The taller man grinned, catching Mickey’s eyes in the mirror, “See you around, Mick.”

As soon as Ian was out of the bathroom, Mickey locked himself in a stall, shoving his jeans and underwear down to the middle of his thighs. He spit generously in his hand and wrapped around himself, tugging and squeezing hard, gnawing on his bottom lip to keep from making a sound.

 

* * *

 

This was probably the lamest thing he’d ever done. But here he was, carrying two fucking brown paper bags into the library and heading straight for Ian, who was still staring down at the book in front him. He’d been there for the past hour or so. 

Mickey had been held up in the library for most of the day, trying concentrate on shit for his finance classes. His concentration had been broken, however, when Ian came in. And though the redhead hadn't seen Mickey, Mickey saw him and couldn't stop thinking about that mouth on his skin. So obviously his first instinct was to… _buy him lunch?_ Because that made sense. 

He tried not to think of deep-seeded reasons for why he did the shit he did, but Mickey couldn't help but think that maybe this was his way of giving Ian a little piece of what he wanted. Which told him that he shouldn't be doing this. But what use is reason when your attraction is evidently winning out against your survival instinct? 

He plopped one of the bags down right in front of Ian’s face and settled down in the chair across from him. Mickey dug around in his bag until he found a fry and popped it into his mouth, watching Ian look at him with complete confusion.

“Did you bring me lunch?” Ian arched a brow at him.

Mickey rolled his eyes, “Fuck you, is what I brought you. Mandy was supposed to meet me, but she didn't show up. Hope you like pickles.”

It was a lie, of course. Mandy didn't eat cheeseburgers. She didn't eat meat. And while Mickey didn't want to lie to Ian, this didn't really count in his book. Besides, he absolutely _refused_ to give Ian the fucking satisfaction. 

“How’d you know I was here?” Ian asked; he stuffed a handful of fries into his mouth and made a grunting sound, like he was holding back a moan. 

“Been here for a while.”

Ian grinned at him before he took a bite out of his cheeseburger.

“Thanks,” Ian said, his voice soft.

This was not a date. Ian had that date look in his eye, but this was _not_ a date. This was one dude buying another dude a burger, _lying about it,_ with the full self-awareness that both dudes wanted each other in a hundred different ways. But again, this was not a date. Fuck you _very_ much.

“What are you studying?” Mickey asked, scratching an itch on the side of his neck.

Something happened to the redhead. He just stopped, his eyes fixed on Mickey, french fry lifted halfway up to his open mouth. His face was flushed, breath coming out a little labored, eyes blown out like he was… oh. Mickey forced himself not to grin. There it was. Ian dropped his chill again. 

“Ay,” Mickey waved a hand in front of Ian’s face, “You okay, man? You gonna have a fucking stroke or something?”

Ian jumped a little, but collected himself quickly, “Renascence Lit,” he mumbled, popping the fry into his mouth.

Mickey gave the flustered redhead a slow smile. Normally guys who couldn't keep their shit together drove him up a wall, but on Ian it was just kind of awkwardly sexy. There was a part of Mickey that appreciated Ian's no-chill moments because they told him that the redhead _wanted_ him, got distracted by him. It felt weird to like that, almost felt wrong, in a way.  

“I’m almost done with your drawing.”

“I thought you finished with that?”

“Nah,” he shrugged. Still had some finishing touches.

“Do you… need me to model for you, so you can finish?” Ian asked carefully.

Mickey bit the inside of his cheek and shook his head, “I go that uh,” he tapped his finger against his temple, “That photographic memory shit. Look at something a couple times and I can, you know… remember every detail.”

He dragged out the last three words a little, letting Ian know exactly what he was saying: _buddy I know you like no one has ever known you before. In my head, at any moment I fucking want, you’re there._

He wasn’t expecting his own body to react to his own words, but it did. Because that image of Ian standing butt ass naked, those lines of his body, the tone of his muscle. Mickey knew it all. Got himself off to that image more times than he was willing to admit.

“Really?” Ian asked.

Mickey nodded, “Yup.” Every. Inch.

“That’s uh…” Ian trailed off with one of his nervous laughs.

“It’s nice,” Mickey finished for him, keeping his voice low.

“Yeah?”

He nodded, “It’s real nice.”

“So then, you like having that… photographic memory?” Ian asked, his chill was long gone and Mickey’s fucking hunger for him lived on the fact that Ian had all but just asked if he got himself off to his memory of his body.

Mickey kept his face passive, leaning forward a little, resting his elbows on the table, “Comes in handy.”

“I bet,” Ian was so far off the chill scale that he was openly staring at Mickey’s mouth. So Mickey wet his lips, all nice and slow for him, his own body getting so hot and keyed up that he had to start thinking of football just to calm down.

While Ian had his hands resting on top of the table, Mickey got a good look at them, taking those mental pictures, saving them for later, not caring if it was obvious. “I should probably get going. I’ve got a class in fifteen minutes.”

Ian nodded; there was a tiny drop of ketchup at the corner of his mouth.

Mickey hadn’t planned on it, was being reckless, but he got up from his chair and walked around to stand next to where Ian sat. He reached out and pressed his thumb against the corner of Ian’s mouth.

“Got a little ketchup,” he explained, his thumb working independently and dragging across Ian’s bottom lip.

Fuck his lip was so soft; Mickey caught Ian’s eyes —his big blue-green puppy eyes staring up at him, wide and wanting, blown out. Fucking Christ. 

Mickey threw any rational thought out of the window and slipped his thumb into the redheads mouth, past his teeth. He might as well have given an order or something, because Ian immediately responded, closing his lips around his thumb, sucking just enough to where Mickey clenched his jaw hard to stop from making a noise.

What would Ian look like on his knees in front of Mickey, not sucking on his thumb but… shit shit _shit_ , he couldn't think of that right this second. 

Mickey slipped his thumb out of Ian’s mouth, steeling himself until he was fully collected, “See you around, Red.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Ian's pose** ](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/149533650103591311/)


	6. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He obviously cares about you—”
> 
> “Please Mandy,” Mickey cut her off, “Please just fucking stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda long.
> 
> Content Warning: Sexual Content(?)- nothing graphic. Also, my ignorance on how colleges/universities handle certain disiplinary things. idk I'm winging it here, man.

Mickey pulled on his cigarette as Mandy dabbed a peroxide-soaked tissue to his cheek. It hurt like a bitch, _everything_ hurt like a bitch, but the Percocet dulled what it could under it’s heavy blanket. Mickey let his eyes close, a wave of fatigue creeping up on him. Twenty more minutes and he’d be out like a fucking light.

His sister’s voice was soft but hardened with anger and worry, “You gonna tell me what happened?”

Well it felt like he’d been hit by a fucking freight train. Mickey didn't really want to talk about it, but if he didn’t, Mandy wouldn't stop asking. “My fucking Studio Art teacher had a talk with dad about me. Like it’s her fucking business.”

“Talk about what?” Mandy asked.

Mickey breathed a soft laugh, his left side cracking with pain, “Ah fuck,” he held onto his ribs, pulling out his phone to show Mandy the picture of his self portrait, “About this. She uh… she said she was fucking worried about how I saw myself or some shit... I dunno. But you know how dad fucking is about that.”

Mandy’s glassy eyes stared at the picture before they flicked to Mickey’s face, darting all around, looking at the bruises and swelling, “He shoulda died, not mom.”

Mickey quirked an eyebrow, having no argument for that. This was so fucking old, Mickey couldn't sand it anymore. If it wasn’t him, it was Iggy. If it wasn't Iggy, it was Colin. Or their dad fucking berating Mandy about every little thing, calling her the worst fucking names imaginable, but thankfully never laying a hand on her. 

She’d even use this to her advantage sometimes and stand between any one of her brothers and their father until Terry backed off. Her hands would shake and she’d flinch in fear, but she did it —no matter how many times her brothers told her to stop.

But this, all this shit, Mickey was so tired of it. It seemed to be more him than anyone else lately, and he knew he definitely got the worst of any of them. Iggy and Colin got back-handed or shoved around. Mickey got pummeled because he was too soft —too much of a faggot. 

Funny thing was, before his dad caught him fucking another guy when he was sixteen, he was _sure_ that he was the favorite. Terry was always hard on him, sure, and knocked him around too, just like the other boys. But when that happened… any favor that he once had for Mickey turned into this ugly monster and Terry just didn't hold back anymore, not with Mickey. He went into these blind rages with Mickey.

There was a knock on Mickey’s door. Both he and Mandy stilled and looked at each other.

“You expecting someone?” she asked.

Mickey shook his head. His sister got up and went to the door before Mickey even had the chance to tell her not to. He heard her talking with someone, but he didn't know who it was, so he used all his effort to stand from where he sat. 

The pain was unreal. All his muscles ached, every single one, burning with every step. The closer he got to Mandy at the door, the clearer the other voice got, until Mickey stopped in his tracks because he recognized that voice asking if he was okay. Ian. 

It was then that the pain turned into a rotting mix of shame and anger. This shit was beyond Ian’s grasp. Mickey knew the whole fucking campus had to be buzzing with the story of how Terry Milkovich beat the shit out of his son in his office, throwing him around, throwing every name in the book at him. And yeah, Mickey got him back too, gave him everything he had in him at the time, but it didn't matter, not really.

Mickey didn't want Ian seeing this shit up close; it had been different in the library, for all Ian knew, Mickey had gotten in a fight. This time Ian knew _exactly_ what happened: poor little Mickey still got beat on by his daddy. He wouldn't fucking understand, and the fact that this motherfucker that the balls to come to his fucking apartment to check up on him like it was any of his fucking concern. Fuck this guy.

He reached out, gently pulling Mandy back into the apartment so he could give Ian what he was looking for. A good fucking look at what Terry Milkovich did to his kids when the varnish was scrubbed away. Ian’s eyes looked everywhere —his face, his hands, where Mickey was holding onto his left side, because it fucking hurt to breathe.

“Mickey, he was just seeing if you were okay,” Mandy’s soft voice said behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder.

Mickey gave Ian a hard look as he closed the door.

“Mickey, that’s not fair, he was worried—”

“I don’t need his fucking… charity or pity or whatever the fuck he thinks he’s knocking on my goddamn door for,” Mickey snarled. He knew it wasn’t fair, but that was life, right? What was fucking fair? 

“He obviously cares about you—”

“Please Mandy,” Mickey cut her off, “Please just fucking stop.”

 

* * *

 

The day after Mickey’s _very_ public beating, his brother’s all but kidnapped him. There was this little place about over an hour away from the city that was dense trees and nothing really for miles. Mickey and his brothers had been going to there since Mickey was about twelve. They take Colin’s truck, a cooler of beers, a few guns, ammo, and a bunch of greasy burgers from a drive-thru. 

It’s a secret place thats just for them, for when they need the escape, when they need to just be free and relax for a little while. You could call it a “boys-club” thing and Mandy had asked to go countless times —and it hardly seemed fair that she wasn’t “allowed” to go, but rules are rules, and the rules say _no girls_. Sorry 'bout it. 

Mandy called them misogynistic pigs because of that. It was probably true.

Iggy would set up a line of old, rusted cans on this one vine covered log and they’d bullshit around, drinking and sitting in the back of Colin’s truck and just spend a good few hours hanging out. It had been months since they last went out to their spot, but nothing changed about it.

It was harder to wrap his hands around the gun, since they pulsed with pain and were still a little swollen, but Mickey worked through it. One by one he (eventually, he wasn't a fucking marksman) shot the cans down, his lip pulling back in a snarl. That feeling, holding a loaded gun, pulling back on the trigger… it was powerful and dangerous and strangely cathartic. Somehow, Mickey didn't know how, he never knew how, but somehow it helped.

It gave him time to think while he sat around in the middle of the woods with his brothers. Iggy and Colin were talking about something —Mickey wasn’t listening, just leaning back against the inside of the bed of the truck, staring up at the sky through the towering trees. Mostly he couldn't stop thinking about Ian, which was really starting to grate his fucking nerves. 

Real talk: he liked the guy, probably more than he should. Also real talk: he may have over-reacted to Ian showing up to his apartment to check to make sure he was okay. Also _also_ real talk: Ian had no idea what he was trying to step into, he didn't understand and Mickey didn't really want him to understand, not really. 

To clarify, _he didn't really want Ian to see that shit._ It was a mess. It was fucking embarrassing. Mickey was already so not-in-control of his fucking life, the fact that Ian was trying to invade (not invade, that was a harsh word, but whatever) and try to get inside all that shit made it… a little uncomfortable. Mickey wasn’t used to outsiders wanting to get inside like that. 

Mickey knew that Ian meant well, he really did. And objectively, he could appreciate the fuck out of that. It was just a fucked up day, a fucked up situation, just everything… fucked up.

 

* * *

 

[Mandy 6:10 PM] Expect a pizza in 30-45 mins.

[Mickey 6:13 PM] Excuse me?

[Mandy 6:14 PM] You’re welcome.   
[Mandy 6:14 PM] Do yourself a favor and don’t be a complete asshole. I know it’s hard for you.

[Mickey 6:15 PM] Remember that time I told you to mind your own fucking business?

[Mandy 6:17 PM] Which time?

  

Mickey tossed his phone onto his bed and padded into the bathroom. What the fuck was wrong with his sister, fucking ambushing him like that. Jesus. He yanked his shirt over his head and caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. 

Frowning, Mickey turned to see the blossoms of purple and brown and reddish-pinks from his fathers fists. No broken ribs, but banged up real bad. He’s had broken ribs in the past. Those were bad. 

The one under his eye had that gross yellowing around the edge. Any small scrapes and scratches that Mickey had were scabbed over. He was a decent healer. Bottom line: he’d looked worse. 

With an oddly-amused grin, he kept looking at the bruises. Kind of looked like splotches of watercolor or something. Bruises were weirdly cool and pretty to look at, even though these particular ones had him remembering the heavy slam of fists and his fathers angry screaming about how fucking ungrateful he was, and how he’d turned into a soft pussy-boy because of those “pole-smoker art classes”. 

Truly, Mickey’s father was a gem. He thought maybe he’d get him a “#1 DAD” mug for next Christmas. Maybe a t-shirt too. Prick.

Mickey popped a couple ibuprofen, splashed cold water on his face and changed his shirt. He really didn't want to see Ian, didn’t know what to say. Maybe Ian wouldn't be the one delivering the pizza that Mandy ordered for him. Maybe. Hopefully. 

He smoked three cigarettes while he waited for the knock. When it finally came, his stomach was in knots —a mixture of being fucking annoyed and knowing who (probably) was on the other side of the door. 

Ian had that look in his eye when Mickey opened the door. Careful, confused, whatever… just kind of lost on his words. They did the pizza-money exchange. Mickey had all these words on the tip of his tongue, but they wouldn't come out.

He took a minute to look at Ian, looking at him. God that boy was fucking lethal.

Mickey’d wanted to explain, something in him wanted to open up that wound in his chest and let Ian see. But… fuck, why was it so fucking hard? Because at the same time as him wanting to let Ian in, he wanted the redhead as far away from all that shit as humanly possible.

So he just ended up closing the door. Because it was probably better that way.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Milkovich, do you have a minute?”

Mickey took a deep, patient breath. He was exactly four steps away from walking out of his Studio Art classroom and then fucking _Joy_ had to finally fucking open her big gabby mouth and talk to him. Fuck. He steeled his face, turned around and nodded, mostly out of obligation. Unfortunately, he didn't have a class for another hour.

He followed Joy to her small, messy desk and shoved his charcoal-stained hands into his pockets, “What’s up?”

“I…” she sighed, looking helplessly around her desk, “I feel very responsible for what happened with your father—”

“Don’t,” Mickey shrugged, “You’re just doing your job, right?”

“Yes, well… still, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

Joy’s face was creased, her brows twisted, mouth turned down. She looked like this whole thing had been fucking eating at her. So Mickey sighed and nodded, not knowing how else to react, or what to say. 

“Maybe I overstepped,” she continued. “Maybe I went about it wrong… you’re in college now, an adult, I shouldn't be running to your father if I’m concerned about you, I should be talking directly to you about it. So, I’m very sorry that I went around you like that and I hope that you understand that my intention wasn’t…”

“I know,” Mickey sighed. “Ain’t your fault. Probably shoulda, you know, done what I was asked.”

“You did _exactly_ what you were asked,” Joy shook her head. “That’s why I was —I _am_ — so concerned about you, Mickey. You are so talented and you can go _so_ far with your work. And I know that artists like you and me, we’re in constant states of varying self-doubt and depression; it’s kind of a weird package deal.”

Mickey felt his back heat up. He clenched his fists in his pockets, not wanting to talk about this psychology shit. So what, he got a little pissed off and sad, who doesn’t?

“My point is… I just don’t want to see you get lost in it. I hate that this happened to you because I overstepped with my concern. And as beautiful —and I mean _beautiful_ — as your self portrait is, I hate that _that_ is how you see yourself. I hope you find yourself, Mickey. Having a parent like yours, I know it’s hard to, trust me.”

His eyes were stinging. He had to get out of there. Mickey opened and closed his mouth a couple times before murmuring out a “Thank you,” and leaving the classroom, going straight for the nearest bathroom. Thankfully it was empty.

Mickey took a couple deep breaths, splashed some cold water on his face and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Stop,” he told himself.

 

* * *

 

[Mandy 4:23 PM] Ian is a wonderful workout parter.  
[Mandy 4:23 PM] We had lunch. We’re practically bff’s now.

[Mickey 4:24 PM] Good for you.

 

* * *

 

It was all piling up. Mickey had been siting at a table in the back corner of shooters, nursing a beer when he saw Ian come in and make a beeline for the bathroom. He waited a minute before following the redhead, his back and shoulders tense, jaw working furiously. 

He wasn't _angry_ , per se, just mostly trying to psych himself up for finally talking to Ian after all this time, finally saying _something_. On the outside, he knew he looked pissed off, so he forced his face to go all impassive. It was better than nothing, right? 

Maybe he _was_ still a little pissed off about Ian showing up at his place not even hours after his dad beat the fucking hell out of him in front of a team of football players. Maybe he had a right to be pissed off about it, maybe not, he didn't know. But it was just how it was.

Ian was washing his hands when Mickey walked in. The redhead looked at him through the mirror. Mickey locked the bathroom door and folded his arms under his chest as Ian finally faced him.

It was time to lay some fucking ground rules and set some boundaries.

“I don’t talk about my dad,” Mickey said, “Don’t ever fucking ask me about any of that shit. If any conversation comes up about it, it’s on _my_ terms. If you can’t deal with that, you can go fuck off.”

“I never asked you about it,” Ian said, lifting his shoulders.

“You don’t know shit about any of this,” Mickey added, because it was important —seemed important, at least.

Ian nodded in understanding, “I shouldn’t have just showed up like that. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I know. I… thanks for that, I guess,” Mickey sighed. “I don’t need your fucking pity though.”

“No pity,” Ian said. “Just making sure you were still whole.”

“Well, I am. I’m fine.”

Mickey’s words hung in the air for a moment; it kind of felt final, kind of settled, almost. Some of that pressure in Mickey’s chest had lifted and he didn't know if it was because of being around Ian again (because that’s what the stupid giant of a redhead did to him) or if it was because he finally felt like he grasped onto some kind of fucking control in his life, no matter how small, it was important. Ian gave him that, just handed him all of that without question. That was important and knowing that Ian gave him that made Mickey more comfortable, more sure.

And then Ian pushed off the counter and took a step towards Mickey; he had this slow, sick grin spread across his face as the air changed. “Your sister is a vegetarian. She doesn’t eat meat —so she doesn't eat cheeseburgers with extra pickles.”

Mickey knew that was going to eventually bite him in the ass. He rolled his eyes.

“I believe that means you bought me lunch,” Ian said. 

“Yeah well, I believe that means you can go fuck yourself,” Mickey replied, his traitorous mouth pulling just barely in a grin.

Ian shrugged, “I’d rather fuck you.”

Mickey huffed a laugh, his whole body tightening at the redhead’s words. He did nothing to cover up the fact that he was absolutely eye-fucking the shit out of him. Ian was hot. No, lethal, Mickey liked that better, it fit better. Ian was lethal. Even when Mickey was all pissed off at him, he still found himself jerking off to the thought of him, picturing every detail he could, thanking whoever was responsible for a photographic memory. It was like having a rolodex of Ian porn in his head.

He closed the space between him and Ian, resting his hands on the redhead’s hips, walking him back until he was pushed against the counter. Mickey pressed his body into Ian’s, watching how his face was being studied by those big blue-green eyes. 

“You wanna just bang it out right here, then?” Mickey asked.

Ian shook his head, “Nah, not like this.”

“This not good enough for you, your highness?” Mickey teased.

But Ian just smiled, grabbing hold of Mickey’s forearms with his big hands, his long fingers wrapping around him there. That was about the point that Mickey realized with absolute clarity that there were two different sides to Ian Gallagher. There was the adorable, puppy-eye’d, no-chill Ian. And then there was this… this fucking _wolf_ that looked at you like you were his last meal on earth. 

Mickey’d known that since Ian’s little stunt of being the nude model for Mickey’s art class, but right then and there, it was fucking written in stone. Mickey leaned into Ian a little, pressing against his hard body, involuntarily sighing in the back of his throat. This was also the time when he realized he was fucking done for.

Ian bent his head down and pressed his lips to the side of Mickey’s neck. Little spidery lightning bolts shot out into Mickey’s body. If that weren’t enough, the redhead tasted his skin, darted his tongue out and fucking _tasted_ his skin and Mickey couldn't stop the sound of his breath hitching if he tried. He could have sworn that Ian made a sound too, but it was hard to tell when Mickey was so fucking out of focus.

Then Ian trailed his lips up Mickey’s neck, all slow and careful. Mickey let his fingers inch under the hem of Ian’s shirt, needing to feel his skin there. He felt so good. Not even just pressed against him like they were, but touching him like that, it felt so good. Ian was soft, his skin holding this slight coolness to it without being weirdly cold. Maybe it was because his own skin was always so hot -whatever the case, Mickey wanted to touch him everywhere.

He finally realized that Ian’s lips brushed over his jaw and stopped at the corner of his mouth. He caught himself before he turned his head towards the redhead’s lips. Mickey would have kissed him. Full on, would have fucking kissed him. It almost scared the shit out of him. Should have. God Mickey was so fucking hard, it was almost embarrassing.

“When I fuck you,” Ian said, leaning back so they were looking each other in the eyes. Ian’s mouth was just barely red, his eyes blown out and focused with this intense fucking stare that Mickey took mental pictures of ten times over. “It’s gonna be somewhere we don’t have to worry about shit like being too loud, or getting caught with our pants around our ankles.”

Mickey couldn't even believe that came out of the redhead’s mouth. The words were laced with about a thousand different promises, all of them ending in _I will fucking devour you_. Which Mickey was more than on board with.

Some kind of sick savior banged on the door. Mickey only thought _savior_ because he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to take much more of this without resorting to something debasing like getting on his knees and begging for it. Mickey’d never begged for cock in his _life_ , but he had a feeling Ian could get him there with little to no effort. That kind of scared the shit out of him too, if he were being honest. Yeah, it got him going real bad, but it still scared him.

He backed away from Ian and slipped into a stall, cupping his erection through his jeans while he tried to talk himself down. Shit. Fuck. What the fuck.

 

* * *

 

[Mandy 7:26 PM] Ian told me to tell you thank you and it’s amazing…?  
[Mandy 7:26 PM] What did you do?

[Mickey 7:30 PM] Don’t worry about it.

[Mandy 7:31 PM] Too late. What did you do?

[Mickey 7:32 PM] I dropped off a picture. Can’t keep that shit at my place.

[Mandy 7:33 PM] Picture of what?

[Mickey 7:34 PM] Him. When he modeled for my class.  
[Mickey 7:34 PM] I thought you guys were bff’s and braided each others hair and talked about boys and all that shit?

[Mandy 7:35 PM] Well he didn't tell me THAT! Oh my god!

[Mickey 7:36 PM] You’re gonna have to find your chill.

[Mandy 7:36 PM] I’m sending you his number.

 

* * *

 

_When I fuck you, it’s gonna be somewhere we don’t have to worry about shit like being too loud, or getting caught with our pants around our ankles._

_When I fuck you._

_When I fuck you._

Red hair all fisted between his fingers, and that lethal mouth on his skin, and that angle of his cheek, and a bead of sweat rolling down a freckled chest.

_When I fuck you._ Not if. _When_.

“F-fuck,” Mickey breathed roughly, resting his head against the tile wall of his shower. Hot water beat down on the side of his face, his shoulders heaving heavily with every breath. His leg trembled, threatening to give out on him while he recovered, FUCK hand slowly working itself to a stop.

 

* * *

 

Mickey ran into Jordan at the library. The guy tried to be all subtle about asking if Mickey wanted to hook up again over the weekend. Mickey declined. 

Jordan was a bad lay anyways.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't even trying to not be messy at this point. Mickey’d stripped off his jacket, leaving him standing in front of the canvas in his tank undershirt and jeans, his irritation getting to him so bad that his arms were having these weird phantom itches, so he was getting paint everywhere... honestly, it was just sad. 

He looked like he didn't even know what the fuck he was doing, covered in about ten shades of five different colors, paint staining his shirt, face screwed up in the most confused expression he’d ever made. This was also probably the biggest piece of shit painting he’d ever painted in his whole entire life. And Mickey had made some pretty fucking awful paintings when he started out. 

 

[Mickey 1:30 PM] Visual arts building. Room 205.

 

He didn't know _why_ he texted Ian. It just seemed right, like he _should_ text him for this. He just kept looking at this piece of shit painting that was supposed to be _happy_ and _cheerful_ and shit and instead, it just kept getting more and more fucked up. So he needed a second opinion, he thought. He needed… he needed Ian’s opinion apparently. 

And Mickey didn't know when that happened, when exactly Ian’s opinion on his shit factored into _anything_ , but somehow it did. That little epiphany more-or-less bugged the hell out of him. So he tried to justify it as Ian looked like the kind of guy who knew what _happy_ should look like (one of Mickey’s more melodramatic trains of thought, like he was _incapable_ of recognizing happiness or some shit… come on). 

It took less than ten minutes for Ian to show up to the classroom, breathing hard like he just sprinted. Mickey really hoped the redhead hadn't sprinted; he really should throw the guy a bone and help him work on his chill. But knowing that Ian did rush over sent a little thrill down his spine, if Mickey were being honest.

“Hey,” Ian made his way over, the classroom door closing behind him.

“Ay,” Mickey sighed, gesturing to his painting, “This look fucking happy to you?”

Ian took one look at the piece and let out this strangled snort of a laugh.

“Nice, douchebag,” Mickey frowned. What a little prick.

“I just…” Ian shrugged, “Why are you painting flowers?”

“Because,” Mickey ended it there. Because he was trying to convince his fucking teacher that he wasn’t on some road to self-destruction, and that he was okay. Something. Anything. Anything to make everyone think poor Mickey was a happy little clam and move the fuck on.

“I don’t really know anything about art,” the taller man said.

Time for a crash course. Mickey reached out, wrapped his hand around Ian’s wrist and pulled him over to an easel, making him sit down on the stool. A painting was already resting there. An abstract depiction of a wave, all blacks, blues, greens and grays. There were bits of gold in there for good measure. 

Mickey didn’t really talk to the girl that painted it, but he was always looking at her stuff. She was fucking amazing, and you could just tell that she broke off a piece of herself for every single one of her paintings.

“This chick in my class did this,” Mickey explained, standing behind Ian.

“It’s cool.”

Mickey nodded, “So tell me what it says.”

This was important to Mickey, that Ian understood this kind of shit. And he knew that he was treading in some very dangerous waters. He was essentially setting Ian up to loosen up more of his armor, possibly break it down completely. He knew this. He knew how fucking vulnerable he could potentially make himself to the redhead. 

But he still wanted Ian to… see him. He wanted Ian to see him. There it was —the whole reason Mickey needed Ian here. He wanted Ian to see him. Mickey felt himself teetering at the edge of the rabbit hole, suspended in this unknowing state of unknowing. He should have been more terrified than he was. He wasn’t terrified at all.

“It… it doesn't say anything,” Ian’s voice came out as more of a question. “It’s colors and texture and movement. It’s kind of… I dunno, overwhelming?”

This conflicting wave of half-relief, half-scrambling-to-help-Ian washed over Mickey. He walked around the redhead and stood next to the painting, “It should make you feel something, when you look at pieces like this. Look at it again. No bullshit this time, just soak it in.”

“Since when are you good with talking about how you feel?” Ian arched a brow at him.

“This is different, asshole.” Mickey raised his middle finger.

Ian locked his eyes on the painting, sitting there for a minute in silence. Mickey watched him, his shoulders feeling like they were going to snap at any time, they were so tense.

Finally, the redhead opened his mouth, his eyes shifting back to Mickey, “I feel like it’s gonna swallow me whole. Like I’m gonna drown in it. It’s overwhelming, but I kinda feel like I wouldn't mind if I did drown in it. Like, it would be okay.”

Ian’s eyes were all dark and focused when he said this. And Mickey didn't want to assume things, but they way he was looking at him kinda spoke for itself.

Mickey nodded towards his painting. The smudgy, globbed-on flowers in red and blue, the ridiculous sky and clouds. Might as well have been painted by a child. Mickey hated it so fucking much. “So does that pass off as happy to you?”

The redhead looked at it again for a minute, his head tilting side to side. He sighed, “It looks _too_ happy. I don’t know if it’s because I know you, or… it looks sarcastic. _Here’s your fucking flowers and your bright blue sky, go fuck yourself, I hate this and I hate you_.” 

Mickey swallowed. Didn't realize he took a step towards Ian, but he did. He folded his arms under his chest, kept watching the redhead. Mickey felt warm all over. Felt himself stumble at the edge of that rabbit hole.

“It makes me feel angry at whoever made you think you had to paint this, because _this_ isn't for yourself.” Ian continued, “But at the same time… I dunno, it makes me kinda happy because it’s obnoxious and it’s a fuck you. And I like that. But I don't think that's the kind of happy you were aiming for.” 

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. Mickey kind of spaced out while he was looking at Ian. Something changed in that classroom. Something that didn't have to be explained. Something shifted. Mickey felt this warmth in his belly that spread to the rest of his body, all slow and curling.

“Did I get it right?” Ian asked him.

“Yeah,” Mickey murmured, his arms falling to his sides.

Ian stood up and Mickey was glued to where he stood. He didn't move when Ian got closer. He didn’t move when Ian’s hands grabbed his hips to walk him back until he was pushed up against a wall. When Ian slid his hands up Mickey’s body to hold his face, Mickey couldn't look anywhere else but those blue-green eyes. Ian looked at him careful, but sure. 

And it was happening, and Mickey wanted it so fucking bad, he didn't stop it. Maybe he should have stopped it, but the way Ian was pressed against him, the way he fucking fit together like that. No. No way in _fuck_ he was stopping this.

He teetered more on that edge.

Ian ran his thumb over Mickey’s bottom lip.

He slipped, fully suspended in the air, all slow motion and doomed from the start.

Ian leaned down and brushed his lips against Mickey’s. The redhead’s mouth was warm and soft, his breath tasting like something Mickey had never even fucking tasted before. Ian. It tasted like Ian.

Mickey curled his hands in the hem of Ian’s shirt. Ian pressed his lips against Mickey’s.

Mickey fell down the rabbit hole with a sigh, his arm wrapping around the redhead’s waist, bringing him even closer. Mickey was _gone_. Ian cupped the back of his head with one hand, his lips moving all slow and right and sure against his own and Mickey was _gone_.

He’d kissed before, obviously. He’d kissed girls in high school, mostly. One other boy —this kid named Robbie Carter. But compared to this, that was like a fucking peck on the cheek. Robbie Carter was _nothing_. Fuck Robbie Carter.

Ian’s mouth tasted like warmth and safety and Mickey knew how fucking cheesy it sounded, but it was the truth. He latched onto that, following Ian’s slow fuck with his tongue, feeling a little floaty and blurred and if he had to just live on this for the rest of his life, kissing Ian, Mickey could be okay with that.

He tightened his grip around Ian’s waist and reached up with his other hand to bury it in that fucking hair. That fucking fire on top of Ian’s head; he fisted it between his fingers, wishing he could see what it looked like, but the thought of stopping was the furthest thing from his mind. His hair was soft, but textured, and glided easily between Mickey's fingers; he needed to remember that.

And when he fisted his hand into that red hair, Ian moaned low into his mouth, and kissed him harder, with more urgency than before, biting at his bottom lip. God, Mickey wanted him so fucking bad.

Ian broke the kiss off all slow and drawn out, brushing their lips together one last time before taking a step back. Mickey was breathing hard like he just ran a fucking marathon, and Ian was too. Goddamn if the sight of Ian Gallagher after kissing like that wasn’t the best thing that Mickey had ever seen in his whole fucking life. He was going to remember this face for the rest of his life. 

“I’ve got to go to work,” Ian said, his voice all heavy and heated, like he’d rather stay here with Mickey.

The way Ian was looking at him, wanting him, wanting to stay with him… it made Mickey grin, made him feel even hotter than before. He nodded, wetting his lips, tasting that Ian taste that was left over. Fuck. Mickey was so entirely _gone_.

 

* * *

 

He couldn't remember the last time he was in a meeting room. Probably never. It was kind of stuffy, a long table, too many chairs… his dad on one side, him on the other. He wanted to leave. He didn't want to go through this shit. 

There were a bunch of other people too, who had been talking for what seemed like an hour. Mickey didn't talk. His dad did, but Mickey just kept to himself, chewing a piece of gum so he would sit there and bounce his leg and annoy the fuck out of everyone. He stayed silent like he knew his dad would want him to.

“Coach Milkovich, we simply cannot ignore your actions towards you son—”

“This is a _family_ issue,” Terry kept saying. Over and over again like a fucking broken record. Mickey wondered if Terry actually thought that would be enough for these people. He wondered if Terry actually thought they would accept that.

“Your _family issue_ happened on school grounds, in the athletic department, in front of the entire football team and other coaches.”

“Terry, you beat on your kid in front—”

“I don’t abuse my children! This is a family issue! This kid is out of control, you don’t know—” Terry bustled. He calmed down, took a deep breath, “I understand how… it could be misinterpreted, but I do not beat on my children. Mickey is… he’s a troubled kid. Has been since his mother passed.”

Mickey kept his eyes on the table; he popped his gum and sighed. So this was the card he was playing. Of course.

“Mickey?” Someone prompted.

“Yeah. I’ve had a lot of problems since my mom died,” Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip with his thumb. In a way, he _was_ telling the truth.

The meeting didn't last much longer after that. By the time it was done, Mickey was not necessarily in his dad’s good graces again (not that he ever really was), but he was being offered coffee. 

It seemed like some kind of sick reward for lying —Terry did that sometimes, like it was a prize of riches to maybe be back in his good graces. Mickey wasn’t completely sure that the board believed him, but there was nothing he could do about it. Everything was kind of up in the air.

He wasn’t expecting Ian to be working behind the counter at the coffee place on campus. Ian didn’t work here, he delivered fucking pizza. As soon as he walked through the door, with his father walking behind him, Mickey started sweating.

There were two big ass question marks hanging in the middle of the room: 

1\. Would Terry Milkovich recognize Ian Gallagher’s face from Mickey’s drawings that he found, and subsequently tore up after knocking Mickey around, for said drawings? 

2\. Would Ian make the terrible (but innocent) mistake of acting like he knew Mickey?

If his dad did recognize Ian, he didn't show it. Ian seemed to make sure he didn't look Mickey’s way, while trying to keep a passive face. _Please don’t do anything stupid,_ Mickey prayed, _please find that chill buried deep down, I know it’s there. Channel that shit._

Mickey couldn't fucking breathe. He kept his eyes on the floor, wishing it would swallow him up, only taking quick glances up at the exchange between his dad and his… problem. His redheaded problem. God just days ago Ian had him pushed up against a wall and was kissing him stupid. If his father ever found out…

“Two coffee’s. Black,” Terry told Ian.

The redhead nodded, ringing them up, pouring the coffee, all that shit. He was keeping his eyes trained on Terry though; Mickey realized that this was probably the first time Ian had seen his dad, let alone talked to him. 

“Anything else?”

“Nah,” Terry shook his head.

Mickey figured the coast was clear at this point. He finally caught Ian’s eyes, forcing himself to stay passive. Just stay fucking passive. “Ay, can I get sugar in mine?”

The corner of Ian’s mouth did this little half-twitch thing in an almost smile.

Terry ruined the half-second of a moment and snorted his disgusted laugh, “No, he’ll take his coffee like a man. Straight.”

If Mickey weren’t so fucking terrified that his dad was going to recognize Ian, he would have rolled his eyes. Because who the fuck says shit like that. Christ. It’s fucking coffee. God his dad was really over the top sometimes, he couldn't even stand it.

After Terry pays and they leave, Mickey feels his dad’s big claw of a hand clamp down on his shoulder. He flinches out of instinct, which he hates. They stand like that for a minute, Terry’s hand still squeezing Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey looking down at his cup of coffee.

“Dinner Saturday night,” he said.

Mickey nodded.

After his dad walked away, Mickey’s phone pinged.

 

[Mandy 3:45 PM] Your boy picked up a couple shifts at that little coffee shop on campus if you want to go harass him.

[Mickey 3:46 PM] Yeah thanks for the heads up.

 

* * *

 

[Mickey 9:22 PM] Thanks for being cool around my dad the other day.

[Ian 9:24 PM] What did you think I was going to do?  
[Ian 9:24 PM] Reach over and kiss you right in front of him?

[Mickey 9:25 PM] No. Just thanks for not, you know…

[Ian 9:25 PM] Acting like we know each other?

[Mickey 9:26 PM] He gets paranoid. Didn’t mean it like that.

[Ian 9:28 PM] I know.  
[Ian 9:30 PM] You’re a good kisser btw

[Mickey 9:31 PM] Shut up lol

[Ian 9:32 PM] I’m serious. It was fucking hot.   
[Ian 9:32 PM] You’re fucking hot.  
[Ian 9:33 PM] Can’t stop thinking about it since it happened.

[Mickey 9:34 PM] I am not sexting with you.  
[Mickey 9:34 PM] We are not in middle school.

[Ian 9:35 PM] Ugh you’re no fun. Adults do it too.

[Mickey 9:36 PM] I’m loads of fun.  
[Mickey 9:36 PM] You have no idea.

[Ian 9:27 PM] Prove it.  
[Ian 9:28 PM] Let’s go out. Just you and me.   
[Ian 9:29 PM] Like to a club. In Boystown.

[Mickey 9:30 PM] Not really my scene.

[Ian 9:31 PM] Have you ever been?

[Mickey 9:32 PM] Once.

[Ian 9:33 PM] And you didn’t like it?

[Mickey 9:33 PM] Geriatric viagroids trying to get me to go home with them.  
[Mickey 9:33 PM] Not really my thing.

[Ian 9:35 PM] Uh. Hello, you wouldn't be going to pick someone up.  
[Ian 9:35 PM] You’d be going home with me.

[Mickey 9:36 PM] Oh yeah?

[Ian 9:36 PM] Yeah.

[Mickey 9:37 PM] You wanna just fuck, we don’t need to go out for that.

[Ian 9:38 PM] Yeah well, I don’t just wanna fuck.

[Mickey 9:42 PM] Told you I can’t give you what you’re looking for.

[Ian 9:43 PM] And yet you let me kiss you. And touch you.  
[Ian 9:43 PM] You were the one that told me that I wasn’t just a fuck. I know you have feelings for me. And I have feelings for you too. You can't tell me otherwise.

[Mickey 9:55 PM] You don’t understand.

[Ian 9:57 PM] idk I think I do. From where I’m standing, it looks like we can fuck around all we want and have feelings for each other… but at the end of the day those feelings don’t mean shit. Because your dad is a fucking psycho.

[Mickey 10:00 PM] 1. Told you I don’t talk about him, unless it’s on my terms.  
[Mickey 10:00 PM] 2. Not having this conversation over fucking text.

[Ian 10:01 PM] So we can have it face-to-face?  
[Ian 10:10 PM] Yeah, thought so.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a random masterbatory scene pops up hello
> 
> Fuck Terry Milkovich. In the ass. With a cactus.
> 
>  **Side Note On Mandy Milkovich:** In this AU, I am not going with the canon sexual abuse/rape storyline, but rather one where she's been verbally/emotionally abused, cut down etc. My reasoning: because. 
> 
> Alrighty! Xx


	7. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re the one that wanted to have this out face-to-face, man,” Mickey shrugged his shoulders. It made him feel sick to his stomach to shrug like that, like it meant nothing. It didn't mean nothing. But it had to. That’s the way it was. 
> 
> Brows shooting upwards, Ian opened and closed his mouth a couple times before saying very carefully, “I thought… I didn't really think there was much to discuss. You know, since… it’s the way it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short & I'm sorry D:

There was no thinking or over-analyzing. This was how it was. Ian didn't get that, would probably never get that. And it wasn't his fault. Mickey understood that it wasn’t Ian’s fault that he didn't understand. It didn't make it any easier. Ian wanted this face-to-face, so this was going to happen.

The redhead opened his apartment door, looking tired and on edge.

“Can I come in?” Mickey asked. “I’ve got class in like forty-five minutes.”

Ian sighed, moving out of the way. Mickey walked into the small studio, doing a quick sweep. 

All one big room, except for the bathroom of course. Small couch. Small table with two chairs for eating at. Bed. Television. Dresser. Cheap table next to the bed. Whatever Ian had scraped together. It kind of worked, in a weird way.

“What’s up?” 

“You’re the one that wanted to have this out face-to-face, man,” Mickey shrugged his shoulders. It made him feel sick to his stomach to shrug like that, like it meant nothing. It didn't mean _nothing_. But it had to. That’s the way it was. 

Brows shooting upwards, Ian opened and closed his mouth a couple times before saying very carefully, “I thought… I didn't really think there was much to discuss. You know, since… it’s the way it is.”

Okay so he was starting to get it, finally. Mickey’s eyebrows lifted in appreciation of that, “Yeah, it’s the way it is.”

They couldn't be together the way Ian wanted them to be. And it wasn’t fair. Mickey didn't want to make Ian go through that shit, he wasn't a complete fucking monster. Mickey _was_ a dirty little secret. A walking dirty secret. Ian didn't have to be that, didn't deserve that shit. 

He wasn’t just a fuck, to Mickey —that in of itself was fucking dangerous, for both of them. Because Mickey couldn't _have_ that. He couldn't give Ian that. This was better this way, for Ian. Better to shut this shit down now, before it got any more serious.

“So that’s it?” Ian’s shoulders fell.

When Ian’s shoulders fell like that, Mickey thought he was going to be sick. Not even dating the guy and he felt like they were breaking up.

“You think I like…” Mickey exhaled roughly, shifting on his feet. Here Ian was once again, pulling words out of him, without even trying. It wasn't even fair. “You think I like the way shit is? It’s fucking… it sucks, man.”

Ian didn't say anything. Mickey’s chest went all warm and achy.

“But I uh…” Mickey gestured a hand between them, pulling out the words again, “This —whatever the fuck this is, I don’t even know. Fuck it…  you were right, okay? About me. About you. About… about us. You were right.”

There. He said it. Out loud. 

“And you don’t think you can have that,” Ian said, his voice soft, kind of tired. 

Fuck all of it. Mickey took off a chunk of his armor and gave Ian a good look of what was underneath. “When I was sixteen, my dad caught me fucking this guy,” he sighed. “And he uh… that motherfucker beat me so bad, and whipped me with a belt, that I got uh…” he trailed off and shook his head, pushing back the memory. “I don’t even wanna think about if he caught me getting fucked, you know? This is how it is.”

Fucking another guy got him sent to the hospital. Being the one _doing_ the fucking, was the lesser of two evils, in Terry’s mind. Getting fucked by another guy, taking it, being the _bitch_ … that was the ultimate sin. And that was just fucking. But relationships? Being with another guy...  _caring_ for another guy... Mickey wasn’t sure he’d walk away whole from that.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian breathed.

“What you gotta understand is that he didn't touch that kid when that happened,” Mickey said, feeling his eyes start to prickle and sting. “But that was —that was fucking. It wasn’t real. And uh… thing is, you are.”

He felt like he was going to be sick. Ian sighed, nodding helplessly. The redhead’s eyes were all glassy and sad and it killed Mickey. It wasn’t fucking fair and he hadn't felt this fucking open and vulnerable in a long time. He just opened all these wounds for Ian only to be forced to close them back up. 

It was weird, right? To be this worked up and upset over something that never happened? It. Never. Even. Happened. They never even fucked. They kissed once. They had nothing. Right? Nothing.

So why did it feel like everything?

 

* * *

 

[Mandy 4:00 PM] For the record, you’re a fucking idiot.

 

* * *

 

Mickey flipped through his sketchbook, the one where he told himself to not draw Ian, but drew him anyways. There were only three pages. Mickey could fill up a whole book though, if he really wanted to. 

But these three pages were covered —open eyes and closed eyes; clenched hands and hands with fingers spread out; barely open mouth, lips curled into a grin, dimples, tongue poking out to wet those lips; stretching backs, curled backs, resting backs, lines and muscles and planes. And that hair in every way he’d seen it shift and move, how he’d imagine it would look between his FUCK fingers. 

These sketches overlapped, and he would stare at them for longer than he’d admit to anyone. Mickey sighed, pressing his mouth into his folded pillow as he laid on his stomach. His fingers traced over the sketches, over the line of Ian’s spine, the curve of the space between his pointer finger and thumb.

He’d never torn anything out of his own sketchbook, that was Terry’s job. Mickey sighed again, pinching the corner of the page between his fingers and pulled until it ripped out of the notebook. He did this three times, all three pages. And then he balled up those pages, tossing them towards the trash can in the corner of his bedroom. 

He missed.

 

* * *

 

[Colin 1:15 PM] Make yourself scarce lil bro.

[Mickey 1:17 PM] What’s going on?

[Colin 1:19 PM] Looks like dad’s getting probation. Probably losing his job.  
[Colin 1:19 PM] He’s on a fucking rampage. Banged Iggy up pretty bad.

[Mickey 1:20 PM] Fuck. He okay?

[Colin 1:21 PM] You know Iggy. Damn cockroach survives anything. He’s good.  
[Colin 1:21 PM] Go to the place. We’ll meet you there in a couple hours.  
[Colin 1:23 PM] Just get off campus before that motherfucker finds you.

 

* * *

 

“Ay, ay, ay! Calm down there, Terminator!” Iggy called over to Mickey.

The cans were long gone, but he was still shooting. He emptied the clip into the ground in front of the log where the cans once stood, shooting the earth like it was to blame. Everything was so fucked up.

With a heavy exhale, Mickey lowered the gun, his jaw aching from clenching it so hard, for so long. He was sweating and breathing hard, his grip on the gun so tight that his knuckles were white.

“The fuck’s going on with you?”

“Oh I dunno, maybe the fact that fucking Terry is hunting me down to beat the fuck outta me… because he got in trouble for beating the fuck outta me,” Mickey said, looking back at his battered brother.

Iggy shook his head, his bruised and half-swollen face pulling a smirk as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, “Nah man, that ain’t it.”

Colin cracked open a beer, “Yeah you look like someone kicked your puppy.”

Mickey flipped him off, fishing a beer out of the cooler.

“Probably got something to do with that Red,” Iggy elbowed Colin. “That pretty boy. You know he likes those pretty boys.”

“Iggy, I swear to god, you’re fucking lucky dad already worked your ass over,” Mickey growled at his brother.

“Guess that answers our question,” Colin snorted a laugh. “So what’s going on, Mick?”

He just shook his head. There was no way in hell he was talking to his brothers about this shit. What was going on was he did what he had to do. End of story. Yeah it sucked. Yeah he had slipped up when Ian kissed him. He slipped fucking hard. But he took care of it, put everything right back on it’s axis. He just wished it didn't hurt so fucking bad.

“You need us to kick his ass?” Iggy offered.

“I need you to shut the fuck up,” Mickey answered. “That’s what I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 more chapters to go!


	8. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Open the fucking door, motherfucker!”

There was a lot going on. Mickey’s dad was on probation… it looked like he was losing his job. The judge that put Terry on probation had been kind of like this archangel sent down from fucking heaven. He saw right through all of Terry’s bullshit and was the most unimpressed person that Mickey had ever seen. Terry was told, in so many words, that if he so much as pat’s Mickey or any of his other children too hard on the back, he’d be going straight to jail. End of story. He would throw the entire fucking book at him.

But that didn’t keep Terry from berating Mickey with his words. Mickey wasn’t sure what he preferred at that point, the fists to the face or being cut down, inch by inch. It really was a toss up. So Mickey stayed as far away from Terry as he could, only stopping by his house for Saturday dinners, which every Milkovich child was _forced_ into. Have to keep up the perfect pretty family appearance, and all (even though Terry had done a pretty spectacular job of fucking that up).

On top of all of that, he hadn't seen Ian in almost three weeks. Well, except for a couple times around campus and at the bar. But they didn't talk, not really, not except for a lame apology when they bumped into each other in the narrow hallway that lead to the bathroom at the bar.

Terry was up his ass about ruining his life and possibly his career. Mandy was up his ass about the whole Ian thing, but she had backed off a little at least. Terry hadn’t. He never would though.

Mickey tried to move on from Ian, he really did. He stopped drawing him —but that made trying not to think about him that much worse; he thought about him constantly. It created this vicious circle, always coming back to Mickey lashing out and just being a general fucking black cloud of misery —and of course, jerking off. So much jerking off. Probably too much.

But then jerking off wasn't even enough. And Mickey, unfamiliar with feeling the way he did towards another person —towards the redhead— was left kind of floating out to sea, unknowing what the fuck to _do_. It wasn’t just about sex. It was everything. And he couldn't fucking have it. 

So he was frustrated and angry all the fucking time, snapping at everyone and wanting to crawl out of his fucking skin. He got into stupid shouting matches with Colin and Iggy, wouldn't talk to Mandy for days. He felt kind of pathetic.

He remembered what his sister asked him a while ago; he thought about this constantly: _How long are you gonna last like this?_ He felt like he was fucking drowning. And then he hated himself because he was _pining_. Fucking pining over another person like some virgin with a problem. Then the vicious circle started up again.

 

* * *

 

Someone was banging on his door. Mickey frowned, getting up from his little kitchen table, where he was studying. The banging wasn’t stopping and a sick dread curled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Terry not giving a fuck about probation anymore and coming to exact his revenge.

“Open the _fucking_ door, mother _fucker!_ ”

Shoulders falling at Iggy’s voice, Mickey finally exhaled and unlocked his apartment door to open it. “The fuck—”

Iggy shoved him, “The fuck is wrong with you? How many fucking times did we tell you we had your fucking back? We fucking told you over and _over_ again, man!”

Catching himself on the wall, Mickey immediately bustled, not entirely sure what the fuck was going on, but whatever it was, he was fucking ready for a fight, if that’s what Iggy was looking for. 

“The _fuck_ , Iggy?” Mickey shoved him back. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Ian!” Iggy threw his arms out, “Do you not fucking trust us? I don’t get it. You’re a fucking idiot! We told you, don’t worry about it!”

His whole body grew white hot, “It’s none of your fucking business. Since when do you give a shit—”

“Since you’ve been a fucking miserable prick for the past few weeks! I’m done with your fucking shit!” Iggy got in his face, never one to back down. 

“You’re done with my shit?” Mickey snarled, “I’m sorry that our fag-bashing prick of a dad has me on edge lately! Sorry I haven’t been all sunshine and fucking roses. Fuck you, man! You have no idea what this is like!”

Iggy pulled a face, giving him another shove, “Oh boo-fucking-hoo, Mickey! Imma little gay boy and daddy hates me for it! If only I had _someone_ to have my fucking back… oh wait! You fucking do! But you’re too fucking _stupid_ to realize that we ain’t fucking around about that shit!”

Mickey didn't even realize his fist was flying until it slammed into Iggy’s cheek. “Fuck you!”

It only really lasted a few moments. They hadn't done this in years, not seriously at least. Sure, Iggy and Mickey sometimes grappled and knocked each other around, but it was mostly just because that’s what they did. It was more play-fighting than anything that _maybe_ got out of hand here and there. But this… this was _I’m-done-with-your-shit_ brother fighting. 

All Mickey saw was red as he tackled Iggy to the floor. They were pretty well matched; Iggy was stronger than he looked and could take a hit probably better than Mickey could. They were throwing each other around, yelling and cursing… it ended faster than it seemed, with Mickey using all his strength to finally shove Iggy out of his apartment. 

“Fuck you!” Mickey snarled again.

“Yeah, whatever man,” Iggy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; he shook his head and sighed. “Real fucking nice that you don’t even trust your own fucking brothers —or your sister. We _always_ got your back. So you know what, fuck you.”

Mickey wiped blood from his own mouth, his jaw aching from where Iggy clipped him. “How do you _not_ understand how this fucking works?”

“ _You’re_ the one who doesn’t fucking get it. We got your back, you got our fucking backs — _that’s_ the way it is. But I guess you don’t trust us, huh? Real fucking nice, man. Fucking slap in the face.” 

Mickey clenched his fist over the knob of his door, trying to even out his breathing.

“He told me you ended shit with him. Why, because you’re fucking scared?” Iggy’s eyes gave Mickey this disgusted once-over, “Pussy.”

Mickey slammed his front door, a whole new kind of white hot taking over his body. But now that white-hot wasn't directed at Iggy anymore. It was directed at Ian.

 

[Mickey 2:30 PM] I need you to find out where Ian is right now.

[Mandy 2:32 PM] I'm not your personal assistant.

[Mickey 2:33 PM] Can you just please fucking help me out here.

[Mandy 2:45 PM] He’s on his way to Shooters to meet his brother.  
[Mandy 2:45 PM] You’re welcome, asshole.

 

* * *

 

Mickey was entering a whole new level of stalker, waiting in the alley next to Shooters for Ian to walk by. His whole body hummed. Ian talking to Iggy about them was over the fucking line. He couldn't even wrap his head around how Ian thought that would have been a good idea.

As soon as Mickey saw the redhead walk past, he grabbed the hood of his jacket and yanked him into the alleyway. Ian flailed and protested before Mickey shoved him against the outside of the bar, holding him in place there with his hand. Ian visibly relaxed when he finally saw that it was Mickey who accosted him.

He didn't give the redhead a chance to speak, “In what fucking world did you think it was okay to talk to my fucking brother about us?” he snarled.

Ian’s face went hard as he shoved Mickey away, “Fuck you, Mickey. He came and tracked me down at the fucking library. Why don’t you get your fucking story straight.”

“It’s none of his fucking business!”

“I didn’t bring it up to him!” Ian barked. “He asked me a question. I answered. Actually, you know what —you don’t get to dictate all my conversations. It’s my business too. I can talk about whatever the fuck I want, with whoever the fuck I want.”

Mickey huffed, raising a middle finger. He didn't have to take this shit. Ian wasn’t his fucking boyfriend, never was. Thank the fuck god for that right now. Fucking childish redheaded prick. Mickey turned to walk away before he was spun back around by Ian, who was back in his face.

“Mandy told me that your dad’s on probation now, but I guess it still doesn't matter, huh? Even though he can’t fucking touch you without going to jail, you’re still scared,” the taller man said.

Ian had abandoned the puppy eyes and the cocky sex-you-up swagger, showing a whole other side entirely. Mickey wet his lips and shifted his weight a couple times while the redhead spoke, trying to remain calm but that angry grin was threatening his lips.

“You’re never gonna be happy, are you Mickey? What, are you gonna marry a woman next? Knock her up a couple times —let Terry name them?”

“You’re a fucking child,” Mickey snarled. “You don’t understand how any of this works —you’re out of your fucking depth.”

Ian turned away again, “I understand plenty.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey rubbed on his lips, his shoulders tense, fists clenching and unclenching. Ian didn't fucking get it, he never would. He was stuck in this fantasy that everyone could just flounce around and be gay and happy without consequences.

But then Ian’s voice floated over, “Can’t. Daddy might find out beat the shit outta you again.”

And Mickey just reacted. He reacted without thinking, because who the fuck did this motherfucker think he was. It took five steps to get to Ian, and another one to lean into the punch that he slammed into the redhead’s face as he turned back to look at Mickey. Like perfect fucking timing.

Ian stumbled back, holding onto his cheek, his face twisting in pain, “Fuck!”

“You wanna run that by me again, motherfucker?” Mickey growled, stepping towards him again, his fist curling, ready to deliver another hit.

But Ian held out a placating hand out in front of Mickey, stilling him, “Low blow, okay! Fuck! I’m sorry! Christ man, what do you have, built in fucking brass knuckles? Jesus!”

Mickey wiped a hand down his face, then over his hair, pacing in front of Ian. It was like being doused in cold water. He seriously just did that. This heavy, immediate guilt settled in his stomach as he paced. No better than fucking Terry at this point, just throwing punches when someone pissed him off. Good fucking job.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Ian sighed.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Ian was watching him, his cheek already smudged with red from here Mickey had hit him. 

Mickey stepped closer to the redhead, taking a better look at the damage. Mickey could throw a fucking punch, he _knew_ how hard he hit and how hard he hit Ian. Fuck, he fucking hit Ian.

“Fuck. That was fucking stupid of me,” he sighed, reaching up to brush his fingers over the tender mark. The guy probably bruises like a damn peach too. Fuck.

“I deserved it,” Ian shrugged.

Mickey shook his head, sighing, “No, I fucked up.”

“We both did, then. I gotta shut up sometimes.”

He didn't know when it happened, but they were standing so fucking close now. They caught each other’s eyes, Ian looking so deeply into Mickey’s that Mickey was sure the redhead could read his mind. Ian had amazing eyes. Blues and greens, tinges of grays. 

Mickey imprinted the color in his mind, this pull in his chest because he just wanted Ian so fucking bad, he wanted to just run away. Just run away with the redhead and just leave and never _ever_ fucking come back. Just disappear forever.

“This isn’t fair,” Ian said, “It’s not right.”

Mickey sighed, “I know.”

He knew Ian’s face by heart, but that didn't stop him from looking everywhere he could, hating this look of defeated sadness that he had, but at the same time, never wanting to forget. Mickey always hated when people glamorized how beautiful someone looked when they were sad. It was hard not to notice how beautiful Ian was when he looked like that though. 

It wasn’t fair that his dad did this. Terry denied who Mickey really was, beat him for showing anything that could be misconstrued as anything other than a perfect little straight boy. Beat him for anything, really. No matter what Terry used as an excuse, it always comeback to that day he caught Mickey and saw for himself that his baby boy liked other boys. Goddamn pole smoking queer. Big ol ‘mo. Damn his son’s happiness. Damn anything that made him smile —the painting… the drawing… Ian.

Ian made him smile. Ian was like this obnoxious little ray of fucking sunshine that refused to be put out. Fucking annoying ass redheaded problem. Too tall. Too pale. Too many stupid fucking freckles. Crazy ass red hair that had that one fucking piece that would _not_ stay in fucking place, no matter how many times he ran his stupid big hands over it. Fucking no-chill idiot. God, he was perfect. 

“Mickey, I—”

Mickey’s hand reached out, pulling Ian down until their lips were almost touching. He couldn't stay away from him. And it was so dangerous, but he could taste Ian’s breath on his tongue, and he could remember the feel of that mouth. Mickey pressed his lips against Ian’s, just barely, just enough, until it lit a fire under his hunger for Ian, and he realized that he couldn't kiss Ian that softly right now. 

He wanted to fucking devour him.

Ian walked them back, further into the alley as they kissed hard, biting and licking and breathing heavily into each other’s mouths. Then Mickey’s back was pressed against a wall and the redhead was grabbing at his ass and _fuck_. He groaned into Ian’s mouth, reaching up to bury his hands, both hands, into Ian’s hair, needing that texture, eating the groans that Ian let out into his mouth. He wanted Ian. Wanted him so fucking bad, it hurt. 

He moved to Ian’s neck though, sucking and biting at the skin there, tasting him there (his skin tasted better than any liquor that Mickey had ever drank, better than any weed or pill, he could live off Ian's taste), earning so many fucking hot sounds from the redhead. Ian was grabbing at his ass so hard, he’d bruise, but Mickey didn't gave a fuck. He hoped he would bruise, wanting Ian’s markings on him so he could look at them later and remember this.

“Fuck that’s good,” Mickey breathed as Ian rocked against him. Ian wedged his knee between his legs and Mickey’s eyes rolled back at the closer, harder contact.

Needing to touch him, Mickey reached between their bodies and cupped Ian’s erection through his jeans, rubbing up and down his length; Ian stilled, resting his forehead against Mickey’s, shuddering out a strangled noise. Mickey couldn't help but grin at that, loving that he was doing this to Ian.

Then Ian kissed him slow, moaning into his mouth, licking and tasting his lips, moving his mouth in such a way that made Mickey’s stomach flip. Vaguely, he noted that Ian was working open his belt and jeans, spit into his hand then slipped it into his boxers. 

“Jesus,” Mickey shuddered, just about fucking whined when Ian wrapped his fingers around him. He felt it all over, rocking into the redhead’s hold while used all the focus he could muster to follow Ian’s lead.

When Mickey spit into his own hand and reached into Ian’s boxers, it was hard not to groan in appreciation of what he found. He’d already known, but that was totally fucking different. Ian hadn't been hard as a fucking rock when he modeled for Mickey’s class. Like, he knew Ian was packing but _Jesus_.

Both of them worked each other in unison. Mickey was so keyed up and entranced by the way Ian was jerking him off, he almost forgot to breathe. It was perfect. Ian was perfect. This, though in an alley where anyone could really walk into and see them, was perfect. 

Mickey rocked into Ian’s grip; Ian did the same. Mickey tried to imagine Ian inside of him, breathing on him, grabbing at him, touching him all over. It was so much, it was too fucking much. And so good. So very fucking good.

“Imm’na come,” Ian panted.

Mickey nodded, thinking he might have mumbled out “Me too,” but not entirely sure. His breathing was all over the place, as was his mind. But he pressed his mouth against Ian’s, kissing him again, wanting to swallow up every moan, every breath that Ian was willing to give him.

They came together, in each others hands and it was fucking mind-blowingly hot. Ian slumped heavily against Mickey, burying his face into his neck while Mickey completely relished in the feel of his weight on top of him like that, trying to get his breathing back on track. 

Amazingly, Mickey had a couple tissues in his jacket pocket that they used to try and clean up with. They didn't say anything for a while. Mickey was trying to convince himself that it was a fucking mistake, but how could a mistake feel so fucking good and right and perfect. He didn't feel guilty or wrong about it, and _that_ almost concerned him… but he didn't even care. 

He was done caring. This is what he wanted. This was _who_ he wanted. Because yeah. Maybe he fucking loved Ian. He didn't know. Mickey didn't think he was even all that capable of something like that, didn't know what it felt like to know for sure. 

Ian looked at him, his mouth working for a moment before he dropped this half-assed sounding, “Sorry.”

Mickey shrugged, “I’m not.”

“I’m not really, either,” Ian grinned. “I just… I dunno…”

Mickey nodded. It was a fucked up situation, “I know.”

A soft _ding_ came from Ian’s pocket, his phone, “I gotta go inside. Lip’s waiting.”

Mickey nodded again, trying not to sound too hopeful, “See you around?”

“Yeah,” Ian breathed, leaning forward to brush his lips against Mickey’s.

Mickey leaned into the kiss, trying to make it last for longer, trying to remember how soft and good Ian felt. He couldn't go his whole life without this again. It wasn't physically possible.

“See you around, Mick.”

He really loved the way Ian said that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iggy coming in at the clutch the only way he knows how, bless.
> 
> Thanks for all the love & comments & support for this story!  
> 2 more chapters to go! Hopefully then some one-shots because these boys are far from over.


	9. May 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need your help,” Mickey lied, rubbing a his bottom lip with his thumb.
> 
> “With what?” Ian was already closing his notebooks.
> 
> Mickey nodded off to the side, silently telling Ian to follow him. Ian did, without question, sending a little thrill down Mickey’s spine, “Can’t reach this atlas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Terry.

Mickey raked a hand through his hair, watching Ian’s tall, conspicuous ass make his way out of the art gallery. Mickey shook his head and grinned, wondering why the redhead hadn't come over to talk to him. Probably because Ian had shown up out of the blue, again, like he liked to do. But still, Mickey could have used the distraction.

They hadn't seen or talked to each other since the alley —but everyone on campus was fucking busy, running around, frantically studying and writing papers. Mickey was so bogged down between studying for business classes and studio art, he thought his brain would start leaking out of his ears at any moment.

But that didn't mean that Mickey didn't think about Ian. He kind of missed him, kind of wished that he could see him more often —like every fucking day.

“Mr. Milkovich?”

Mickey, being drawn away from his thoughts, turned to look at the young woman who addressed him, “Yeah?”

She had long dark braids that were pulled out of her face; one of those classy-ass black business dress things, mouth full of perfect white teeth —she was holding out her hand as she introduced herself, “My name is Ayana Hayes, I’m with Zg Gallery.”

Mickey’s brows shot up as he mindlessly shook her hand, “No shit?”

Ayana grinned, “No shit.”

He chanced a look over at his work, frowning a little. Someone from the fucking Zg Gallery coming to a student show and they pick probably the worst one.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d be interested in _possibly_ being a part of our weekend show next month? We’re showcasing five up and coming artists, eight pieces each —it’s a new event. I was wondering if you would be open to having me view your work? This isn’t school affiliated, of course, so the exposure will be wonderful for you… if we like what we see. But I’ll be honest with you, we already are _very_ impressed with you.”

His mind quite literally went blank, “What?”

Ayana’s smile never wavered, “I was at the showing in December — _perception_ was the theme, wasn’t it? Your portrait was so beautiful and honest, I couldn't get over it. Still can’t.”

“Uh,” Mickey was just catching up with what she was saying, his face catching fire. “Wait… you want to look at my paintings?”

“Very much so,” Ayana nodded. 

“To see… if I can be put into this show for new artists?”

“Correct.”

“At the Zg Gallery?”

“Yes.”

Mickey breathed out a disbelieving laugh, “You fucking serious?”

 

* * *

 

He knew he had a problem when as soon as he walked into the library and saw Ian sitting with his usual notebooks and headphones on, end of his pen rubbing across his bottom lip. All Mickey could think about was that mouth the redhead had on him. Could you get addicted to kissing? Was that a thing? Mickey thought about it more often than not, Ian’s capable lips pressed against his, tasting his mouth, breathing into each other. Fuck.

So of course, he made a beeline, tapping Ian on the shoulder to get his attention.

Ian slipped his headphones off and looked up at Mickey, smiling slow for him, “Hey.”

“I need your help,” Mickey lied, rubbing a his bottom lip with his thumb.

“With what?” Ian was already closing his notebooks.

Mickey nodded off to the side, silently telling Ian to follow him. Ian did, without question, sending a little thrill down Mickey’s spine, “Can’t reach this atlas.”

“Atlas?” Ian laughed behind him. "Who uses an atlas?"

Mickey rolled his eyes as they neared the back of the library. He jerked his head towards where the atlas’ were, his chest going all warm when Ian passed him to step up to the shelves. When he reached up towards the top shelf, the hem of his t-shirt rode up a little, exposing that strip of pale skin. Mickey stepped closer until he was right behind the redhead, wetting his lips.

“Which one?” Ian asked.

As soon as he turned around, Mickey pressed him up against the shelves, pressing their bodies together. Ian responded immediately, his hands coming up to hold either side of Mickey’s face, their lips crashing together. Mickey’s hands grabbed at his hips and then searched up the back of Ian’s shirt, smoothing up and down wherever he could touch.

It was kind of clumsy and frantic, how they kissed. Mickey couldn't get enough, couldn't taste enough of Ian’s mouth. It only got worse the longer they kissed, Mickey feeling ten different kinds of desperate. 

Ian pushed at his chest a little, trying to put a little space between them so he could gasp for breath. Mickey wasn’t entirely sure what came over him, but he was back on Ian’s mouth almost immediately, loving the feeling of Ian’s chest softly rumbling when he laughed against his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Four shot glasses clinked together before the Milkovich children knocked back the whiskey, and slammed them back down onto the hightop table.

“Okay,” Iggy rubbed at his chest, pool cue in his other hand. “Big dogs against the little dogs. Losers pick up the tab.”

“Since when are you and Colin the fucking big dogs?” Mickey pulled a face, grabbing his beer off the table.

“Since _birth_ ,” Colin answered for Iggy. “Actually wait, I want Mands on my team.”

“What the fuck, bro?” Iggy’s mouth dropped.

Mandy laughed, grabbing her pool cue, “Poor Ig… picked last in kickball, picked last in pool.”

Iggy raised his middle finger towards his sister, which she returned with both hands.

Oh hell no, Mickey shook his head, “Iggy fucking chokes, _I_ want Mandy. Big dogs against little dogs.”

“The only one who’s fucking choking here is _you_ on Red’s dick,” Iggy shot over at Mickey, moving his fist in front of his mouth.

Colin reached over for high-five. Mickey felt his whole body burn up as he grabbed Iggy in a headlock, leading to a short scuffle packed with every curse word known to fucking man.

 

* * *

 

There was no mistaking that wild ass hair from across the empty courtyard. Mickey had been on one of his walk-think-smoke ventures when he saw Ian just laying out in the grass, soaking in the sun. Mickey smirked, making his way over to where the redhead was sprawled out.

He looked good like that, eyes closed, completely lost in whatever was going on in his head; there was a little grin on his lips, all content and warm. Only Ian Gallagher would just lay out like that in the sun, damning the fact that he was a freckly, pale-ass redhead who probably shouldn't be doing just what he was doing.

“The fuck are you doing, Red?”

Ian opened those big eyes up and looked up at Mickey, grinning and patting the spot next to him. Mickey shook his head. There was a chance that he burned worse than Ian probably did.

“Shouldn’t you be packing up your shit to go back home?” 

“Sticking around for a little bit,” Ian sighed. “Who knows, maybe I’ll just stay here. Got a job. Got a place to live.”

Mickey wanted to grin, but he stopped himself. “Ain’t a bad setup.”

“Pretty nice,” Ian agreed. “Will you sit next to me at least, fuck, I feel like an ant down here.”

Mickey snorted a laugh and sat down next to where Ian was laying, resting back on his hands. “High maintenance.”

“Whatever.”

He looked around the courtyard; there really wasn't anyone around, no one important anyway. Everyone was getting their shit and leaving or had already left. 

Mickey looked over at Ian just in time to see the redhead reach over and ghost his fingers over the back of his hand. The touch was barely there and Ian’s face looked so careful, but it still sent his stomach into a tailspin.

He took another scan of the courtyard and breathed a laugh, “You’re fucking obnoxious.”

Ian just smiled at him, but didn't remove his fingers. Which was okay, since honestly, Mickey didn't really want him to. It felt nice. Usually Mickey wasn’t that big on people touching his hands. He didn’t know why, but whatever reason, it didn't seem to apply to Ian.

“Shouldn’t _you_ be packing?”

Mickey shook his head, “My lease has another month.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a little bit; Mickey keeping his eyes scanning the area around them, hating how fucking paranoid he was. His dad wasn’t even on campus, but there was a constant bubble of _what if_. 

He felt Ian’s fingers trailing over his knuckles, over his tattoos; Mickey thought that he could definitely get used to it, the gentle touches on his hands. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, touching hands and all that shit. 

Mickey could get used to this, with Ian. The thought of someone _else_ touching him like this, so comfortably and gently… it was weird. He didn't like it, it didn't feel right. _This_ felt right —Ian felt right.

“I uh… I went to your show,” Ian finally said.

Mickey looked over at the redhead, “I know.” 

Ian stilled, “You did? Why didn't you say anything?”

He shrugged, “Didn’t want to make it weird, like you’re doing now.”

“I’m not making it weird,” Ian narrowed his eyes. 

Mickey grinned, dropping back to his elbows, doing yet another quick sweep of the courtyard before looking over at Ian. He burned the image of him into his mind. Hair lit up by the sun like fire and the blue shirt looked so good with his hair and his skin. Mickey’s fingers itched, wanting to draw him, or paint him.

“I really liked them,” Ian’s voice was quiet, “The paintings.”

Mickey felt heat on the back of his neck; he looked away from Ian because he couldn't really handle it at that moment, that overwhelming heart-in-his-throat feeling.

“You have zero fucking chill, man. You know that?”

Instead of getting a response, Mickey felt Ian’s hand slip under his own and thread their fingers together. His initial reaction was clamming up and looking around, but still, they were in the clear. 

“You’re always so warm,” Ian told him.

Mickey smirked, “You know what they say about warm hands, right?”

“No, what do they say?”

His shoulders relaxed; he moved his thumb against the back of Ian’s hand, feeling the soft texture of his skin, “Warm hands, cold heart.”

“I thought it was cold hands, warm heart?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. Okay. “Do I have cold hands?”

“No,” Ian said.

“Well, there you go,” Mickey shrugged.

He tilted his head back, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, easing into a weird sort of relaxation. The redhead pushed slowly at Mickey’s boundaries and Mickey found himself letting him in. Holding hands? In the middle of fucking campus? Not just in the middle of campus, but in general… just _holding hands?_ That was that gayest shit… but he was into it. Because it was Ian’s hand. His big stupid hand.

Ian pushed softly, knew when he overstepped, knew when to back up, knew when to push further. And Mickey didn't know how the fuck he knew, but he loved that he did. And when Mickey was really honest with himself, the truth was that he _loved_ the fact that Ian had the balls to show up to his art class to be a nude model. And that he had the balls to show up at Mickey’s apartment after Terry beat the shit out of him, just to make sure he was okay. 

It was all just so new and fucking terrifying, but Ian felt so fucking safe. And Ian saw him. He _saw_ him. And it was so important. It was the most important. Mickey thought maybe he could love Ian. Maybe he already did. He didn't know, it was hard to tell because he’d never had that chance to feel this way. He’d never let himself. But the redhead drew him out, placated him, let him know it was okay. 

What did it mean when you thought you’d do anything for another person? It was the same, but different than with his siblings. But near that, but on a different plane. It was all so confusing but addicting and Mickey didn't want it to stop.

Ian shifted beside him; had propped himself up on his elbows, “You’re really kinda beautiful.”

Mickey’s eyes blinked open, his whole face full of fire, stomach tightening up. No one had really ever said that to him before. He kind of felt like a twitchy middle-school girl being noticed by her crush and immediately wanted to punch himself because _he_ was supposed to be the fucking chill one.

So he side-eyed Ian and asked him, “Are you high?”

Ian laughed one of his goofy ass belly laughs, and shook his head, “No, I’m just saying. Can you let me have my fucking moment, please.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, not really sure who he was talking to now, “Zero fucking chill.”

 

* * *

 

He couldn't fucking move. Ian had him jammed up against the bathroom stall door, leaning into him in such a way that he was fucking _pinned_. 

And normally, Mickey would be fighting like hell to get out of being cornered like that. But it was _Ian_ , and Ian had his hand shoved down his pants was was working him so good that not only could he not move, he couldn't even fucking _think_.

“Fucking _Christ_ , Ian,” Mickey panted out, a tidal wave of urgency taking over his whole body.

 

* * *

 

“Ugh,” Mickey grunted, pulling on his cigarette. 

He looked at the painting on his easel and exhaled a cloud of smoke. It had been a long time since he seriously worked with color (he didn't count that disaster of a flower painting) and everything just looked so fucking bright and obnoxious. But this couldn't be done in grayscale. It had to be in color. Ian had to be in full fucking color. Fucking redheaded mess. Annoying.

Needing to take a break, he looked down at his hands and shirt and sighed, quickly yanking the shirt off and tossing it to the side. His phone beeped.

 

[Ian 9:45 PM] Hey.

[Mickey 9:48 PM] Hey.

[Ian 9:50 PM] Are you busy?

[Mickey 9:51 PM] No, just painting.

[Ian 9:52 PM] Cool. What are you painting?

[Mickey 9:54 PM] A picture.

[Ian 9:55 PM] You’re such a shithead.  
[Ian 9:55 PM] Are you busy this weekend?  
[Ian 9:56 PM] I was thinking we could do something.

[Mickey 9:58 PM] I’ve got this stupid fucking dinner at my dad’s.  
[Mickey 9:58 PM] After?

[Ian 10:00 PM] Okay.  
[Ian 10:02 PM] Would it be weird if I called you?  
[Ian 10:02 PM] Just to like talk, I guess.

[Mickey 10:03 PM] You’re gonna make it weird, now lol  
[Mickey 10:04 PM] But idc if you call me.

 

Mickey let his phone ring a couple times before he answered, rolling his eyes, “Sup?”

“Nothing, I’m bored,” Ian replied.

Mickey snorted, looking at his painting with a critical eye. Ian would shit himself if he saw it, probably. “Glad to know I’m your go-to for when you’re bored. Thought I was special, Red. The fuck?”

“You uh… you want me to make it up to you?”

Mickey’s mouth dropped open. This motherfucker. “Holy shit, did you call for phone sex?”

Ian made a pfft noise, “What are you talk—”

“You fucking did, didn’t you? You horny motherfucker,” Mickey grinned, chewing on his bottom lip. Okay, so this was kind of hot.

“I didn’t call for phone sex.”

“You sound less than convincing,” Mickey stood from his stool in front of his easel and wandered into his bedroom.

“Why do you always have to torture me like this, and call me out on shit?” Ian laughed.

Mickey breathed out a laugh as he dropped down onto his bed, “I dunno, I guess it’s kinda…” he paused, looking around his room, shaking his head. “Uh, it’s kinda cute or whatever when you get all, you know… flustered.”

“Yeah?” Ian asked, his voice kinda low.

Mickey closed his eyes, resting his hand on his stomach, “Yeah.”

“So what are you painting? For real.”

“It’s nothing right now,” Mickey lied. Because he was _not_ about to tell Ian Gallagher that he was painting him. Jesus, what a headache that would turn into. “Just making a fucking mess at this point.”

“Paint everywhere, huh?” There was this edge to Ian’s voice that made Mickey bite the inside of his cheek and his body flush. Shit.

“Uh… yeah,” he said.

“Is it weird that I think it’s really hot when you’ve got paint all over your hands?”

“You like that?” Mickey grinned, his fingers playing at the waist of his sweatpants.

“Yeah. I like it. Like, a lot.”

Mickey clenched his hand tightly to keep it from sneaking down into his pants, “Well, you’d have a fucking field day with this shit right now.”

Ian grunted. Mickey’s whole body responded to the sound; he cupped himself over his sweatpants, trying to chill the fuck out. “What are you doing?”

“Just… laying in bed.”

“You know,” Mickey breathed, “I gotta get you back for that shit you pulled at the bar.”

“Looking forward to it,” Ian didn't miss a beat.

Mickey looked down at his erection straining against his sweatpants and sighed, “I should probably clean all this up.”

Of course by that he meant he needed to strip down and take care of himself _properly_ because Ian being into paint on his hands had his body set on fucking fire.

“You don’t know how to dirty talk, do you?” there was a grin in Ian’s voice. Like he thought he caught Mickey with his hand in the fucking cookie jar.

“Fuck off, of course I do,” Mickey huffed. It just took a little warming up, he couldn't just whip that shit out at the drop of a hat.

“You wont sext with me. You’re dodging my carefully crafted phone-sex maneuvering… Mickey Milkovich, you can’t talk dirty,” the redhead sounded way too fucking proud of himself. “Why is that so adorably hot?”

“First of all, fuck you for associating that word with me. Second of all, excuse the fuck outta me for preferring to talk dirty in person, like god intended.”

Ian groaned, “Okay, okay. I’ll get you to, one day.”

“Sure you will, tough guy,” Mickey grinned. Ian was probably right.

 

* * *

 

Mickey chewed on his thumbnail, watching Ayana sift carefully through his paintings, her brows creased in concentration. She’d been at it for about ten minutes already, making little noises of appreciation —he thought, he _hoped_ they were of appreciation.

She moved around his apartment, taking pieces and leaning them gently against his coffee table —so far, the pieces from the show in December, the two from the show earlier that month and two others. Both of them mostly grayscale, laced with bits of color. Mickey didn't think they were anything special, but Ayana evidently saw something there. 

And then she saw his painting of Ian. Ayana froze in place; the back of Mickey’s neck heated, not really sure if he wanted her to be looking at that, it was kind of personal. He probably should have moved it out of the way.

“That is _beautiful_ ,” she said, looking over at him with a slow smile, “That is your feature piece.”

Mickey wet his lips, unable to find any words.

“Who is that?” Ayana asked.

His fucking mouth worked independently from his brain, “My boyfriend.”

What!? What in the fuck!? 

He wanted to take it back. Ian wasn’t his boyfriend, Mickey had no claim on him —but it just fucking fell out. Ayana had heard it, there was no stuffing the words back in his mouth, they were lying on the fucking floor. What the fuck was wrong with him? His fucking boyfriend? _Jesus_.

Ayana grinned, “Lucky guy, to be loved like that.”

Again, Mickey couldn't find the words. Couldn't figure out how to tell her that he’d made a mistake, that Ian wasn’t his boyfriend, he was… well, he didn't really know. It just slipped out like that, like he’d been saying it for fucking _years_. Fuck.

 

* * *

 

Mickey got the spot in the Zg Gallery.

 

* * *

 

It was like a checklist. 

He’d humiliated the Milkovich family name. He was ungrateful. He wasn’t a man. He ruined his father’s entire life. He wouldn't amount to anything. He was worthless. He was stupid. He should have been aborted —or should have been swallowed up by his mother instead (probably one of the more creative ones, to be honest). He was wasting his life in that ‘faggy art’. And the list didn’t stop there.

Mickey took it, like he always did. He sat there like a good boy, stared down at his plate, sighed a little, rubbed at his lips, tried to let it roll off his back —because it wasn’t new. He was so used to it by now, the words had kind of this numbing effect on him. But Terry wouldn't stop, wouldn't ever stop. 

And call Mickey a martyr if you will, but he’d rather his dad berate him like this instead of Mandy. Sure, Iggy and Colin got their fair shares of this, but the way Terry would call Mandy a whore and all that shit... it cut deep. It always bothered Mickey. So he was just glad (not _glad_ , but whatever) he was the focus of tonight’s dinner.

Finally Terry quieted down. But not for long. Because the next words out of his mouth sent this fucking chill up Mickey’s spine.

“You’re taking my buddy Rob’s niece out tomorrow night, it’s all set up. You’re gonna take her out, you’re gonna treat her real nice and Rob says she’s a little whore, so you’re gonna bring her back here and you’re gonna fuck her. You understand me? This art shit is making you fucking soft; need to get back on track.”

Mickey looked up, across the table where Iggy and Colin were staring at him with these half-open mouths and _what the fuck_ faces. Mandy sat next to him, her head turning slowly to look at him. There were tears in her eyes.

He didn’t really know what came over him. It wasn’t funny, but Mickey laughed. It was humorless and strained, but he laughed.

“Dad,” Colin hesitated.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut, I ain’t talking to you.”

“I’m not doing that,” Mickey shook his head.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not doing that,” Mickey looked at his father. 

He felt this piece of him break off and float away. It might have been fear or common fucking sense, he didn't know —whatever it was, Mickey didn't look away from his father for even a second. 

“I’m not taking Rob’s niece out. And I’m sure as hell not bringing her back here to fuck her, you sick fucking bastard.”

Terry’s face went hard, his fists clenching on top of the table, “You’ll do what you’re fucking told to, boy.”

Mickey shook his head again, “No. No, I won't.”

Terry was like a fucking bull; he breathed hard through his nose, banged his fist on top of the table and started going off again. Down the same fucking checklist. This time, Mickey kept his eyes on his father. This time he took every word Terry spat at him and he ate them, used them as fuel because he was so fucking tired of this motherfucker ruining everything in his life. He was tired of feeling so fucking weak.

“Might wanna call the cops,” Mickey quietly told his sister.

“What?” she asked.

“Call the cops,” Mickey said, standing from his chair. Iggy and Colin had pushed their chairs out, seeming to take Mickey’s cue of get the fuck ready. “Tell them Terry Milkovich is about to break his probation.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so Zg Gallery is an actual gallery in Chicago. I know zero about this place though, just what I've seen when I looked on their website and stuff. So. Idk just throwing that out there.


	10. May 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get out of my fucking house,” Terry growled.
> 
> Mickey nodded, “No problem,” he said, taking a step back. He shrugged, rubbing at his mouth, remembering one last thing. “Oh yeah… Robbie Carter fucked me on your bed, motherfucker. I took it. He fucked me good and hard, like a little bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time has come... wrapping it up with a long ass chapter :)
> 
> Content Warning: Terry.  
> Also... we gonna get sexy up in here. Like real sexy.

Mickey'd never seen this particular shade of purply-red on his fathers face. Terry Milkovich stood directly in front of him, barely inches away. Mickey knew how childish they looked, sizing each other up, not backing down, chests all puffed up like a couple of stupid beta-apes ready for fucking battle or some shit.

Terry had his fists balled up at his sides as Mickey snarled and yelled right into his face, saying everything he could to get his father to throw the first punch. He’d taunted he was gay —in a lot of different, colorful ways. He’d even boasted about his cock-sucking skills. Somehow, despite looking like a fucking tomato with legs, Terry had not thrown a punch yet.

But not once did Mickey break eye-contact. Not once did he back down. He was fucking tired of backing down, fucking tired of his dad mowing over her every chance he got. It ended. Now. He wanted to be fucking free of this shit. He wanted to be with who he wanted to be with, not Terry’s buddy’s niece. Ian. He loved Ian. And it fueled him further… loving that dumb redhead made him fucking brave or something, he didn't know. Whatever.

Any fucks that Mickey ever had in his entire life went directly and -without hesitation- out of the fucking window.

“You’re done,” Terry spat. “You hear me, boy? You’re no son of mine. Fucking faggot! I want you out of my fucking house —you’re done! I’m cutting you the fuck off!”

Mickey laughed, feeling his eyes sting —hating that they were doing that, but he was so fucking mad and so over all of it, that it was all coming out. “Good. Never wanted to be your kid anyways —fucking psychotic prick!”

Mickey saw his sister out of the corner of his eye, phone at the ready. She took a step towards them, but Mickey held out a hand to stop her, not wanting her to interfere with this. Colin and Iggy stood next to Mandy, no doubt ready to jump in.

“Get out of my fucking house,” Terry growled.

Mickey nodded, “No problem,” he said, taking a step back. He shrugged, rubbing at his mouth, remembering one last thing. “Oh yeah… Robbie Carter fucked me on _your_ bed, motherfucker. I took it. He fucked me good and hard, like a little _bitch_.”

He barely got the last word out before Terry had finally fucking reared back his fist and let it fly. He hit somewhere along Mickey’s hairline and immediately he knew that Terry got him with his fucking ring because warmth started pouring down his face and Mandy screamed.

And it all just kind of blurred together from there. 

Mickey knew that his brothers tried to intervene, but he stopped them. Mandy was yelling and begging their father to stop.

He knew Terry had him pinned to the floor and was sinking punch after punch to his face. He knew at one point Terry was choking him, but was pulled off —Terry turned on his other sons before going back to Mickey. 

There was _a lot_ of yelling. A lot of pain. Mickey tried to throw his own punches, tried to kick and do whatever he could, but Terry was in a blind rage, throwing him around like a fucking rag-doll. All Mickey could hope for was that his dad wouldn't actually kill him this time and that he’d get put away for a long fucking time.

Mickey didn't know how long it lasted —it seemed like hours. He was exhausted and seeing double by the time blue and red lights shone into the house. He might have blacked out. 

The next thing he _really_ remembered clearly was sitting in the back of an ambulance with a little beam of light being shone into his eyes. He didn't want to be sitting in that ambulance. He didn't want people touching him —not these people. All he could really give a fuck about at that point was seeing Ian. Because he fucking won. He fucking beat Terry. Finally. 

 

* * *

 

“You cant even walk upright!” Mandy hissed, following him down the hallway of Ian’s apartment building. “Can one of you _please_ fucking talk some sense into him! He needs to go to the hospital!”

“He’s fine,” Iggy tried to calm Mandy down.

“I’m fine,” Mickey nodded —carefully, because too much movement fucking killed. “You guys don’t have to walk me. I can make it.”

But he stumbled. Colin caught him before he fell. His legs were just wobbly, it wasn't his head. 

“This is insane!” Mandy snapped, knocking harshly on Ian’s door. 

When Ian answered, his eyes immediately went wide, seeing Mickey. Mickey grinned, couldn't help it. He hadn't seen himself, but he could only imagine how fucking scary he must have looked. Maybe he should have at least taken a shower or something before showing up like this. But he just… he needed Ian. Mickey didn't know how to explain it, this need to be with Ian right now. 

“What…” the redhead couldn't take his eyes off of Mickey.

“He wouldn't go to the fucking hospital, wanted to come straight here,” Mandy answered.

Ian moved out of the way so the four of them could pile into the tiny ass apartment, “What the fuck happened?”

Mandy shot off straight to the kitchen, as Colin and Iggy helped Mickey to sit on the little couch. Sitting down on the cushions felt fucking good, but he was kind of worried about getting blood all over the place. Ian didn't seem to mind; he was still staring at him though, completely frozen.

“This stupid motherfucker baited our dad. On purpose,” Mandy explained, comingout of the kitchen area to stand next to Ian. She handed a baggy of ice to Iggy, who passed it to Mickey; Mickey laid the ice on top of his head and sighed. 

“Right in the middle of dinner, dad’s yelling at Mickey, making a fucking ass out of himself. Then this idiot tells me to call the cops then proceeds to just… I don’t even know, he stands up and starts running his fucking mouth!”

Ian ran a hand over his hair, “What?”

“It was fucking epic, man,” Iggy said. “I mean, bad… I thought for sure dad was gonna kill him this time. But shit, you shoulda fucking seen it! _I’m fucking gay, motherfucker!_ Ho-ly shit. Dad turned ten fucking shades of purple before he snapped.”

“No, no… it got better, the longer it took for dad to freak out. Shit, bro, what did you say about sucking dick?” Colin laughed, his eyes darting around as he tried to remember.

Mandy rolled her eyes and sighed, reciting Mickey’s words, “I get on my knees for other boys, dad, I suck dick like a champ and I fucking love it.”

“Yes!” Both Iggy and Colin laughed.

“And uh… oh! He started talking about this dude he fucked in high school on dad’s fucking bed! On his bed! His bed!” Iggy’s voice strained with laugher; Mickey wasn't looking at him, but he knew that when his brother got really riled up, his eyes started watering from laughing so much. “ _Yeah, Robbie Carter fucked me on your bed, motherfucker! I took it! He fucked me good and hard, like a little bitch!_ Bro… mad props for tonight. Scary as hell, but you’re okay, and seriously… I don’t know if I woulda had it in me to do that.”

Mickey wasn’t paying much attention to this siblings. He was more focused on Ian, who was still staring at him. Mickey couldn't wipe the smile off of his face if he wanted to. Ian looked good in those sweatpants. He looked freaked out as fuck, of course… be he looked good. 

And maybe Mickey was still riding that _I won_ high, but he felt so fucking good and couldn't care less about anything else that happened that night. He could be who he was and want what he wanted — _have_ what he wanted. He wanted Ian. All of him. All to himself, he wanted Ian.

Finally the redhead spoke, “You need to go to the hospital.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for the past hour and a half,” Mandy huffed. “he’s probably got a fucking concussion or something.”

Mickey looked over to his sister, his voice coming out all hoarse, “I’m fine. The paramedic said I was fine. Just need a shower. I’ll stay awake for a while.”

“Uh, no,” Mandy frowned. “The paramedic said you should probably consider going in to get your fucking head checked. You said, _nah man, I’m good_.”

Oh yeah. Mickey quirked an eyebrow, moving the baggy of ice to rest on top of his right hand. Whatcha gonna do.

“He just got a little cut on his head,” Colin said, “That’s why he was bleeding like a motherfucker. Me and Igg’s checked him, he’s good. Nothing broken. Dude’s a fucking trooper, right Mick?”

“Thank you Dr. Milkovich,” Mandy hissed. 

Mickey tried nodding his head again, “I’m good. If I needed to go, I would fucking go.”

Mandy was saying something to Ian, but Mickey couldn't really hear. She was probably telling him about their dad getting hauled off or some shit. God that had been a beautiful sight, Terry being thrown into the back of a cop car, kicking and screaming. He kind of wished that he’d made a video of the whole thing.

“We’ll uh… we’ll leave you two alone,” Iggy coughed, following Colin to leave Ian’s place. Fucking finally. “C’mon Mandy.”

Mickey watched his sister hug Ian, leaning back to brush that stupid piece of hair out of his face, “Call me tomorrow, okay?” she told him. Ian nodded.

Then his sister looked over at him with those sad eyes and it kind of killed Mickey to see her looking at him like that. “What you did was fucking stupid, and I’m so pissed at you, I can barely look at you right now. So fuck you for doing what you did, for putting me through that shit. Fuck you, Mickey. Your my brother and I love you. But, fuck you. Can’t stand you right now.”

“Mands, I’m sorry,” Mickey sighed.

She wiped at her eyes; Ian was rubbing her arm, and leaned over to kiss the side of her head. It seemed to help. “He could have killed you.”

Yeah. But he didn’t. Mickey leaned back, a jolt of pain shooting up his side, making his wince, “Had to do it.”

“I know. I know you did. I’m glad you’re okay. But I’m still mad at you,” she breathed before giving Ian’s shoulder one last squeeze and following Iggy and Colin out of the door.

It was quiet then. Mickey felt bad for worrying his sister like that. Kind of felt bad for showing up at Ian’s place looking like he did. It wasn’t the most thought-out plan at the time, but even still… he just needed Ian. So yeah. There is was.

Ian sat next to Mickey on the couch, smoothing a hand over his red hair, just taking another good look at the damages. Mickey let him, didn't mind this time because it was on his terms. He tried to scratch an itch on his cheek, but both his busted up hand and bruising on his face stung with pain as he did so. Ian’s eyes caught sight of Mickey’s hands and he kind of sighed and shook his head.

“So, what… you think you can just show up at my place all broken and bloody and expect that I’ll take care of your ass?” Ian gave him a teasing grin.

Mickey grinned back, a bubble of laughter rolling out of his mouth, his sides cracking with pain as he did so, but it was worth it. “Worth a shot. Thought I’d get some of that Nurse Gallagher action.”

“Luckily for you, as a South Side native, I am well versed in after-fight care,” Ian snorted. “You really should have went to the hospital though.”

Ian’s voice made him feel all warm in his chest. “It’s looks worse than it is,” Mickey shrugged. “I feel fine. I feel fucking great.” 

It was the truth. Physical pain was kind of a moot point now. Bruises fade. Cuts heal. Possible concussions go away. It wasn’t a big deal. Under the pain, he did feel really fucking good. He felt like this weight had been ripped off of his back finally.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, come on,” Ian stood, helping Mickey to stand as well.

Mickey couldn't speak while Ian took care of him. He didn't know what to say. Ian’s hands were soft and careful, slowly peeling his bloody clothes off of his body, just being very attentive and gentle. 

It was weird, but in a good way. There wasn’t anything sexual about it. Ian wasn’t trying to grope him or kiss him or anything like that. Not that Mickey would have objected, _let’s be fucking real here_ , but it was just… it was nice. Mickey had never been taken care of like _this_.

The water pressure in Ian’s shower wasn’t great, but at that moment, it was probably a good thing. It was warm and felt good against his skin. Mickey stood there for a little while, under the spray, replaying those blurred memories of his father coming after him, throwing him around, screaming at him. Fuck, it had been brutal. He’d really fucked a lot of shit up for his dad, didn’t he?

Ian was behind him, rubbing softly at his shoulders, rubbing off the blood and dirt, whatever was smeared all over him. His cut on his head had bled out like a fucking stuck pig, getting _everywhere_ as he was thrown around. 

He knew Ian saw the scars on his back.He’d gotten them after his dad caught him when he was sixteen. They weren’t anything _horrendous_ , just a few that were left from when Terry wailed on him with a belt ( _wailed on him_ was probably kind of a generous term compared to what happened). 

That had been a bad day. Probably worse than _this_ day —given the fact that he’d ended up in the hospital and couldn't sleep comfortably on his back for a good week. Whatever. Mickey didn't want to think about that shit, nothing to do about it now. Terry was going to jail. So everything was kind of _whatever_. Maybe he was numb to all of it at this point.

But the water felt good. And Ian’s hands felt good gently gliding over his skin. Mickey chanced a look down at the floor of the shower and his eyes went a little wide. Holy fuck that was a lot of blood. He must have looked worse than he thought.

“You doing okay?” Ian’s voice was soft. Mickey felt his long fingers gently prod into his hair, rubbing at the strands, breaking up the tacky, matted blood.

God it felt good. Mickey groaned, “Fuck yeah. Feels good.”

“Where’s the cut on your head?”

Mickey lifted a hand up, pointing to a general area behind his hairline where the pain kind of pulsed and radiated, “Around here. Fucker got me with his ring.”

Ian carefully tilted Mickey’s head back so he could see. Mickey let him. They didn't stay in the shower much longer after that. The water on the floor of the tub finally went clear. Ian helped him out and dried him off. Mickey kept silent; he could move around fine now… the shower made him feel better. 

But still, he stood there and watched Ian dry him off and help him into clean boxers and a shirt, watching the way Ian’s face went all concentrated and gentle. He loved watching Ian. He also weirdly kind of loved being tended to like this, but he was glad the redhead wasn’t making a big deal out of it. 

Ian’s bed was comfortable; Mickey climbed in and laid against the pillows, on his back, trying not to wince too much as he did. The pillows were comfortable; Ian settled down next to him, on his side, holding onto his arm. Mickey wished he’d touch him more, but he knew that the redhead was nervous about hurting him.

“Thanks,” Mickey sighed, flicking his eyes up to look at the ceiling, because it was easier that way. “Sorry I just showed up like this. I just uh… kinda needed to see you.”

Ian was rubbing at his skin with his thumb and Mickey really liked that. He liked laying next to Ian too. It was just right. “It’s cool, don’t worry about it. Do you uh… do you wanna talk about it?”

Eh. “Nothing to really talk about, man,” Mickey sighed, something feeling like guilt setting in his stomach. “I mean, I know it’s fucked up but… I just got my dad sent to jail, you know? He fucking deserved it, but I baited him. He just wouldn't stop —I didn’t plan that. He’s always… fuck. He just never fucking stops. He wouldn't shut up.”

Ian squeezed his arm a little, “He’s put you through hell, Mick.”

“I know. I hate him… but it’s like, he’s still my fucking dad. That fucked up?”

“Nah,” Ian replied. “I think it’s like… this primal thing. There’s always gonna be this little part of a kid that’s like, sympathetic or some shit, no matter how fucked up their parents are.”

That kinda made sense.

“I feel like I ruined his fucking life,” Mickey mumbled, feeling something wash over him, feeling his eyes sting, feeling so fucking _angry_ that he felt guilty. He fucking baited his own father. Who the fuck does that?

“You didn’t,” Ian said. “Can’t think of it that way. He ruined his own life by being the way he is… beating on you and shit. It’s not right.”

God, he fucking hated Terry Milkovich. His eyes still stung and everything got a little blurry, so Mickey brought his stiff, beaten hands up to face and pressed the heels gently into his eyes. It fucking hurt, but he didn't want to do this in front of Ian. Fucking crying. Ugh. “He’s a motherfucker.”

Mickey felt Ian reach over and smooth a hand up and down his stomach and it was fucking everything. It was so good. Ian was so good for him.

“Yeah, he is. I hate him too.”

Mickey breathed out a laugh, brought his hands away from his eyes and looked over at the redhead. His redhead. His body ached, but not just from the pain. “Come here for a second.”

Ian’s smile was soft and slow as he scooted closer and leaned in, brushing hips lips against Mickey’s. Mickey turned, it hurt a little to move onto his side, but it was worth it. He turned towards Ian until he faced him, reaching up to cup the back of his head, deepening the kiss. 

It was soft and slow and Mickey thought he’d fucking melt. Ian’s mouth was perfect and warm and everything was just fucking… right. Mickey wasn’t a flowery-words kind of guy, never had been. But his body was like… it _sung_ or something for Ian, felt all floaty and blurred, and he wanted him so bad.

“Probably shouldn’t start up with this,” Ian breathed against his mouth.

“I’m good. It’s okay,” Mickey said, rubbing and pulling gently at Ian’s hair, feeling that texture, pulling a soft moan from the redhead. “I want this. I want you.”

“Yeah but… I don’t want to hurt you,” Ian whispered.

Mickey groaned, his body aching so fucking bad for him, “You’re killing me, Red.”

Ian grinned carefully wrapping an arm around Mickey’s waist. There was a dull pain, so Mickey ignored it because their bodies were brought snugly together and it was fucking perfect the way they fit. Ian kissed him again, gently and playfully, licking and biting at his lips and just making his ache even worse, really.

“We can still do this though.”

Mickey wedged his knee between Ian’s legs, sliding his hand out of his hair, trailing it down the taller man’s back and grabbing at his ass. Ian shuddered and Mickey felt fucking good as hell from that. The redhead really did have a great ass though.

“What about this?” Mickey pressed his thigh against Ian’s erection, moving a little, giving him a little friction, “Can we do this?”

Ian was panting and rocking his hips, “You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?”

“When have I ever?”

“You’re an asshole,” Ian grunted out a laugh. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you, remember?”

Mickey’s eyes were closed, but he still rolled them, his mouth working over Ian’s jaw, kissing and tasting him there. “I’m not made of fucking glass, here. I’m just banged up,” he breathed; Ian was still rocking his hips, breathing coming out all broken and wanting. “Nothing’s broken,” Mickey slipped his hand down the back of Ian’s boxers, grabbing and palming at his ass again, feeling his soft skin. “No major injuries. I’m good.”

Ian pushed Mickey gently back until he was laying on his back again. Mickey looked over at Ian. His body ready to crawl out of his fucking skin, he wanted him so fucking bad. He couldn't remember the last time he wanted someone like this. It was almost fucking violent, the way his body ached.

He opened his mouth, completely ready to start begging if he had to, but Ian was suddenly crawling over him, hovering over him, placing his hands on either side of Mickey’s body, being so fucking careful. God, Ian hadn't even touched him and Mickey had a hard time keeping his breathing under control.

"Change your mind?” he asked, wetting hips lips.

“I’m taking care of you,” Ian whispered.

Ian kissed him. It was achingly slow and soft, but fucking perfect and hot. Mickey needed to touch him, sliding his hands up and down Ian’s sides, bending his knees a little to give him more room, wishing he’d just fucking lay on top of him. He wanted to feel Ian’s weight and warmth.

But Ian took his hands and gently pinned them above his head and Mickey thought he lost a few seconds of breathing. He liked this, being pinned by Ian. He normally didn't like that shit, didn't trust anyone enough, but Ian… fuck, Ian could probably — _probably_ — get away with stringing him up, blindfolded and gagged and Mickey would be like _okay sure_.

Then he slid his shirt up, looking at bruises and scrapes, but Mickey couldn't really focus on that. Not when Ian scooted and dipped down to press his lips to Mickey’s sternum. Mickey thought that maybe he was supposed to keep his hands above his head, but how could he do that, when he had that fucking fiery hair just right _there_. So he brushed his fingers through it, completely obsessed with how it looked gliding between his fingers. Finally. Fucking finally he saw what it looked like, for real. Perfect.

Ian used his lips and tongue, tasting and moving down his body and Mickey was sure he was going to fucking die, because it was just so good. He propped himself up on an elbow to watch Ian, needed to see every fucking thing he was doing.

“Fuck, look at me,” Mickey breathed.

Ian was all slow and grinning when he tilted his head up to look at Mickey. He kept those eyes on him, dipping his head down just enough so he could drag his tongue right above the band of the boxers that Mickey was wearing.

If he’d been a weaker man, Mickey would have fucking come just from that sight alone. “So fucking hot.”

“Lay back down,” Ian said, his voice soft and thick.

Mickey shook his head, “Wanna watch you.” He had to watch. There was no other fucking choice at this point.

Ian crawled back up, pressing their lips together, all tongue and soft lips and heavy breathing. They both groaned into each others mouths. Ian slipped a hand into Mickey’s boxers, wrapping around him firmly; Mickey’s breath hitched.

“Wanna watch me what?”

“I uh…” Mickey bucked his hips a little, his skin heating up. “Come on, man.”

Ian arched a brow, squeezing lightly at him, “Wanna watch me what?”

Mickey could feel the touch all over his fucking body. He groaned, touching their foreheads together, hooking his hand around the back of Ian’s neck. “I wanna watch you wrap that pretty fucking mouth around my cock, is what I wanna watch.”

The redhead had that wide-eyed _whoa_ look on his face, his mouth dropping open. Mickey almost laughed. Ian had really _honestly_ thought he didn't have it in him.

“You gonna put that open mouth to use or no?”

“Yeah?” Ian breathed. His eyes were so blown out, so fucking unfocused and heated that it hit Mickey right in the chest.

Mickey kissed Ian again, kinda rough and drawn out, teeth and tongues, before he pulled back, “Fuck yeah.”

Mickey watched Ian slide back down his body and pull his boxers off gently, take him in his hand. Ian looked up with those eyes of his and very deliberately wrapped that mouth around him and Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Mickey was fucking lost. He reached down and fisted his FUCK hand in Ian’s hair as the redhead worked him so fucking good with his mouth. 

He couldn't help any of the groans and heavy pants that fell out of his mouth. He couldn't stop the fucking _whining_. And his mouth kept running, he couldn't stop that either. The _fuck, yeah like that_ or the _fucking perfect_ or even the _mouth is so fucking hot wrapped around me like that_. It wouldn't stop. 

Ian groaned around him. Mickey’s leg trembled; he whined; Ian groaned around him again, longer and lower and Mickey thought for sure that this was it, this was how it all ended for him. His heart couldn't fucking take something this fucking good. 

“Fuck,” Mickey gasped, his hips rocking, pushing into Ian’s mouth. “Feels _so_ fucking good, so fucking good.”

Ian slid his mouth off of Mickey and replaced it with his hand, grinning cheekily up at him, “Like that?”

Fucking smug bastard —at least he could back it up though. Mickey nodded, “Yeah… yeah I like that — _fuck_.”

“Gonna come for me?” Ian asked him.

Mickey gnawed at his bottom lip, feeling heat and urgency and a fucking train-wreck wash over him all at once, “Yeah,” he panted. He said it over and over, not sure if it was out loud or in his head, but he kept saying it.

With his busted hands fisting hard in Ian’s sheets, Mickey fell back flat while Ian worked him with his mouth again, swallowing him down in earnest until he was fucking melting into the mattress. Ian swallowed it all down as he came, not moving his mouth off of him until Mickey was shaking and sweaty and just a fucking mess, really.

Mickey groaned out something, not really sure what he said. Probably _goddamn_ or _fuck_ , something like that. It was hard to think. Ian was sliding back up his body, settling up next to him, being careful again, running his hand up and down Mickey’s stomach. His skin was prickling and shuddering. 

“You feel better now?”

“Much,” Mickey breathed, looking over at Ian, “Here, roll over—”

“No,” Ian chuckled, “It’s part of the Nurse Gallagher package.”

He must have been relaxed as hell, because Mickey laughed so hard that he hurt his ribs, wincing and holding his side through the laugh, “That’s a good deal.”

“I’d say.”

Mickey stretched out a little and relaxed back into the mattress, “Thanks, man.”

For everything. Not just the blow job —though fucking spectacular. But it was heavier than just _hey, thanks for putting my dick in your mouth_. It was _thanks for being a fucking awesome human being and thinking I’m worth all this bullshit_.

Ian kissed his shoulder, “Get some sleep.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey didn't know why he still hadn’t told anyone about the art show at Zg Gallery. It was so weird, doing this outside of a school-affiliated setting, having some random woman approach him, interested in showing his art. It just felt like this really crazy-ass dream. But it wasn’t a dream. It was happening. _Actually_ fucking happening.

One of the conditions, however, was that Ayana wanted him to paint an additional piece, besides the seven she’d already picked out. 

He just goes at it. Just starts painting and not really thinking too much about it, figuring that it’ll come when it wants. He’ll focus on a background. Blacks and grays and touches of blue. He paints for maybe half an hour before he takes a break to go to the bathroom. When he’s washing his hands, his phone dings.

 

[Ian 3:40 PM] Going home this weekend. The family’s about to send search and rescue on my ass.

 

Mickey sighs, drawn out and kind of relaxed, texting Ian back a simple _okay cool_. When he looks up into the mirror, he almost doesn't recognize himself. It wasn't because of the bruises and scrapes… there was something different about him. He tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowing to get a better look, to understand. 

Mickey can’t remember the first time he ever saw himself in a mirror and recognized the person looking back at him was himself. He doesn't think anyone ever remembers that. But it feels like it’s the first time —at least the first time in a really long fucking time— that he’s seeing… himself. It doesn't make sense at first. Nothing’s changed about him. Nothing’s physically different. But he’s different _somehow_.

Feeling only _slightly_ dumb-as-shit, Mickey reaches out and touches the mirror, following the line of his chin and shoulder. It’s like he’s looking at his face for the first time and he realizes in this really odd, really abstract way that… he’s seeing himself for the first time. Like _seeing_ himself.

 

* * *

 

He was being purposely messy with his paints and he felt kind of ridiculous about it. The thing was, it had been over a fucking week of him pretty much just crashing at Ian’s little place, like they were quasi-living together, messing around… well, Ian has been doing most of the messing around because the fucking idiot redhead has been _insisting_ that he take care of Mickey. Like he didn't trust Mickey saying that he was good to go or something. It was fucking frustrating.

Mickey is thoroughly enjoying Ian swallowing him down almost every night —and seriously… _thoroughly_ enjoying the shit out of getting blown by the redhead, no complaints whatsoever. But he’s just about to go crazy because not only does Mickey want to drop to his fucking knees for Ian, but he wants… everything. So call him desperate for that cock, what-the-fuck-ever, Mickey didn't give a shit anymore. 

God, that fucking redhead was seriously a problem.

Ian was supposed to be coming to his apartment to hang out for a while; he was leaving to go back to South Side for the weekend, so it almost felt like a deadline or something. Get it in before he leaves or else it might not ever fucking happen at this rate.

Mickey wasn't sure why Ian even bothered knocking on his door, but he did. He took his time getting to the door, fishing a couple ibuprofen out of a bottle and swallowing them down. He wasn’t in much pain anymore, but still if he moved a certain way too far, it caught up. So the ibuprofen was helping dull that.

“Hey,” Mickey said when he opened the door. 

Ian was holding a brown paper bag, the smell of Chinese food coming off of it in waves. He held up the bag, stating the obvious, “Brought Chinese.”

But as soon as Mickey saw Ian, the last thing he had on his mind was food. Fuck food, he’d starve to death, that was fine.

The whole atmosphere of the apartment shifted when Ian walked in. He couldn't stop looking at Ian —the things he could fucking do to Ian Gallagher. Fuck. And Ian was looking at him too, at the paint on his arms and hands… Mickey wondered if the redhead knew that Mickey had been purposefully messy because he knew what it did to him. 

Mickey was already pent up with anticipation, but physically adding Ian to the mix just kind of amped it up. He wanted Ian so fucking bad. So he takes the bag out of Ian’s hands, he’s slow and careful because if he’s not, he’ll rip the damn thing out of Ian’s grip and throw it on the fucking ground. 

Ian’s eyes go all dark and hot while Mickey puts the bag on the table behind him; Ian clears his throat, “How’s the painting going?”

Mickey didn't want to talk about painting. He sighs, stepping closer to Ian, his hands immediately going to Ian’s belt buckle, “Don’t really feel like small talk, man.”

He hears Ian’s breath hitch as he nods, watching Mickey working the button and fly of his jeans. Mickey wants these fucking pants _off_ of the redhead. He presses Ian against the wall behind him, hands pushing at Ian’s jeans as he kisses him. Ian grabs the back of Mickey’s head, their mouths working against each other, tasting and letting out soft moans.

And then Ian breathes a soft, “Want you,” and Mickey is gone.

He doesn't say anything back. It’s pretty obvious that he wants Ian too. Instead he drops to his knees, his mouth watering as he yanks Ian’s jeans down to the middle of his thighs. 

There’s no second-guessing. There’s no hesitation. Mickey opens up and works his mouth down Ian’s length, loving everything about how fucking amazing the redhead tastes and how he feels filling the inside of his mouth. 

He takes as much as he can, holding Ian’s hips still against the wall, listening to the low groans coming from above him. He looks up; Ian’s head is tilted back for a second, his chest heaving. Then he looks down at Mickey, his hand reaching down to fist into Mickey’s hair and it’s so good. Mickey likes that —Ian pulling on his hair, urging him on. He likes that a lot.

“Wa…wait,” Ian says, barely sounding as if he means it.

Mickey slides his lips off of him, “S’wrong?”

Ian shakes his head, chest still heaving from deep breaths, “Bed.”

Fuck yeah, bed. Mickey stands up, presses himself against Ian, kissing him hard, wanting Ian to taste himself in his mouth —like some weird claim Mickey is making. _This is who sucks your cock now_. It’s weirdly possessive, and primal, and dumb as hell, but Mickey doesn't want Ian to taste himself on anyone else's tongue. 

He wraps his fingers around Ian’s erection for good measure, stroking him, _This is who makes you feel good now_ , making the redhead moan into his mouth and reach around to grab his ass. There’s something really fucking hot about Ian loving Mickey’s ass. Mickey gets off on it, he wont even deny that.

Mickey gets them into his bedroom, walking them backward carefully, not detaching his lips from the redhead’s for even a second. Then clothes are being tugged off, the kissing gets hotter, heavy with sighs and moans. They touch everywhere and stroke and tease and kiss until both of them are keyed up to the point of fucking insanity. 

Blindly reaching over to his nightstand, Mickey grabs a tube of lube and condom, pressing them into Ian’s hand. “Here.”

Ian gets to work immediately; Mickey’s body hums and tenses. It’s fucking happening. Fucking finally. Mickey rolls onto his stomach, folding his arms under his head as Ian slicks two fingers up, his eyes taking a moment to drag all over Mickey. If possible, Mickey heats up even more under his gaze. 

Then when Ian bends down to scrape his teeth along the curve of his ass, Mickey shudders because fuck that was fucking hot. Mickey bends a knee out to the side of himself as Ian settles down next to him, laying up against his side —Ian is so fucking hard against him; Mickey forces himself to stay patient.

“Look at me,” Ian breathes when he starts teasing and opening Mickey up with fingers that are skilled as _hell_. 

Mickey looks over at Ian, resting his head on his folded arms. Ian watches him as his finger work its way fully inside of him. Mickey can’t even explain it, but having Ian watch his face as he does this, it adds this whole other level of intimacy that should have been scaring the hell out of him, but it doesn’t. 

Mickey grunts and pushes back against Ian’s hand, chewing on his bottom lip. It’s hard to keep his eyes open, hard to keep his fucking cool in general. But he forces himself to, keeping his eyes glued on Ian’s face.

“You look so good right now. So fucking tight,” Ian says, working that second finger in, “When’s the last time you got fucked, Mick?”

Mickey grins because what else is he going to do, “Been a —fuck, right there— been a while.”

“How long?”

His face goes all hot, knowing he doesn't have any reason to feel guilty, and he doesn’t, not _really_ … nothing was going on between them then. “Thanksgiving.”

Ian finds that spot that makes Mickey’s whole fucking world turn upside down; he gasps and buries his face in is arms, swallowing mouthfuls of air. His body is on fire and Ian is intent on giving as much attention to his prostate as he can in the span of a few brief moments.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes, “Get on me.”

Ian laughs a little, all soft as he slowly slides his fingers out of Mickey, “Turn over.”

Mickey rolls onto his back as Ian slips the condom on and slicks it up, settling between his legs. The redhead strokes himself a few times and it’s the hottest thing Mickey’s seen in a long time, but that cock would be even hotter inside him, so he’s not really sure what the fuck Ian is waiting for, looking at him like that, like he’s rethinking this. Mickey really hoped he wasn’t rethinking this. That would be fucking awful.

“You gonna keep staring at me or…”

Thankfully, Ian raises a middle finger. Mickey really tries to keep his breathing steady as Ian hovers over him, he does, but it’s hard to. The air is so thick with want and need, that it’s almost suffocating.

Then Mickey sees it flash over Ian’s face. He knows nearly all of Ian’s faces by now, so he knows that particular face he makes is self-doubt. Shit. Mickey props himself up on an elbow and hooks his other hand around the back of Ian’s neck, tugging him down —both of them down— until he was fully laying on top of him. 

Mickey loved that feeling, Ian’s full weight, skin against skin. Mickey kissed Ian slow because he loved kissing him like that. Loved _him_. He did, he somehow knew at that point, it was like an instinct or some shit. Mickey loved Ian. He wrapped his legs around Ian’s hips, tugging fistfuls of hair, trying to get even closer, even though it wasn’t even fucking possible.

“Come on, don’t make me beg for that cock,” Mickey said against Ian’s mouth, because he couldn't say what he really wants to say. Not now.

Ian gets this shit-eating grin on his face, “What, you don’t think it’s a cock worth begging for?”

And the tension dissipates a bit; Mickey huffs a laugh, but it’s all shaky because he’s about to fucking come undone, “It’s definitely worth it. It’s just that nine fucking months is a long ass time to be waiting for you to fuck me. So if you don’t mind getting the show on the fucking road, I’d really appreciate it.”

His redhead grins and reaches between them, down to guide himself, pushing forward. So slowly. So fucking slowly, Mickey gasps and melts and by the time Ian has bottomed-out, he’s feeling so full and —he hates himself for this— _complete_ , that it’s almost too much. 

“Fuck,” both of them pant out. Its the only word Mickey can articulate.

Ian is moving slow, drawn out and patient. It’s hard to breathe, hard to concentrate on anything other than blue-green eyes and red hair. God that fucking hair. 

Mickey knows he’s making all sorts of noise, wanting more, needing more from Ian. He’s not fragile, doesn't want to be treated like his fading bruises are going to split open and break him under Ian’s hold. This slow is sweet and Mickey surprisingly loves it. But he can’t have the sweet right now —his body is burning up too much for sweet. He tells Ian, doesn't know how, but he tells him he needs more, harder, faster —all of it.

Ian shifts, settles above him, hands planting on either side of his body, pressing into the mattress as Ian gives Mickey exactly what he needs. The bed jerks and groans with every thrust. Between the bed’s noises and the sound of skin on skin and heavy breaths and whines and grunts, Mickey is so fucking _gone_.

“Shit, right there,” Mickey chants again and again when Ian shifts and hits that spot. His toes curl, back arches, his body tightening like a coil.

“Yeah?” Ian gasps, “That good, Mick?”

Good doesn't even begin to cover it. His mouth is hanging open a bit and his throat is stuffed with words he won’t say, _This is who you fuck now_ , so stuffed that no sound comes out at all, leg fucking trembling against Ian as he reached between him and Ian to start jerking himself off.

He might as well have been fucking free-falling. Listening to Ian’s groans and little grunts of filthy fucking words, Mickey’s not going to last much longer. The way the redhead moves, they way he looks at him, it’s so much. It’s everything. Mickey want’s to stay in this moment forever. Right here. Seconds away from coming, seconds away from saying something that will change everything, seconds away from falling completely apart.

He hears Ian say his name, “Mickey,” and the way he says his name like that, slowing his pace down, bending to kiss him… Mickey understands. 

So he wraps his free arm around Ian’s shoulders, pulling Ian down on top of him, breathing against the redhead’s face, against his ear. Ian shudders and whines when Mickey does and he knows that both of them are almost there.

“Ian, fuck,” Mickey clenches his eyes hard. Every other thrust, Ian is hitting his prostate and here’s _right there_.

When Ian says, “Gonna… ah fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mickey loses it. That’s his undoing. He comes, bringing Ian down immediately after him, his body shaking and jerking until he’s rolling to the side. Mickey’s breathing so fucking hard, he’s sure that his lungs are about to pop.

“Holy shit,” Mickey’s body shudders —rightfully fucking so. “Holy… shit.”

Ian slips off the bed and pads to the bathroom for a minute, bringing back a damp washcloth and Mickey tries not to laugh because no one has ever done that for him before. It’s kind of weird, but in a nice way. A really nice way.

They slip on boxers and sit against the headboard, next to each other. They don’t talk. They don’t really need to talk, it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. 

Mickey looks down at Ian’s hand and without much thought, reaches out and holds it in his own hand, slipping his fingers between the spaces of Ian’s, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb. It’s nice. Mickey likes all this, touching and sitting together. It’s so fucking comfortable.

Mickey lights up a cigarette with his free hand, not wanting to let go of Ian. Even though he’s closed his eyes, he knows Ian is watching him as he smokes and it makes him grin. 

He looks over at the redhead, “What?”

Ian smiles back, squeezing his hand a little, “You’re holding my hand.”

“Oh for the love of…” Mickey rolls his eyes. He should drop this idiot’s hand just for that, but he doesn’t. “Who is responsible for your lack of chill? I want names.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey laughed hard as he passed his brother the joint.

“What?” Iggy frowned, looking over at Colin, “The fuck?”

“Mickey, seriously,” Colin said, “When’re you gonna bring your boyfriend around so we can make sure he’s not a fucking loser?”

Ignoring the boyfriend comment, he laughed again, shaking his head. No fucking way. No way in hell was he bringing Ian around his fucking brothers to hang out. It just wasn't going to happen. Ever. It was bad enough that he and Mandy were basically best friends already. Colin and Iggy would have a fucking field day with that shit.

“Ain’t happening,” Mickey said. 

“Bring him Monday night to fucking play pool or something,” Iggy said. 

Mickey shook his head for maybe the tenth time.

“You don’t fucking trust us to behave ourselves?” Colin smirked. 

Mickey reached for his beer bottle, “Hell fucking no, I don’t.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Iggy exhaled a cloud of smoke, directing it towards Mickey’s face, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, when’re you gonna bring by whatever girl you’ve been banging, huh? Either of you,” Mickey shot back, eyebrows perched high.

Iggy rolled his eyes, passing the joint to Colin, “I ain’t banging anyone right now.”

“He’s fucking lying!” Mickey huffed a laugh. It was easy to tell when Iggy was lying, his mouth did this weird pucker thing, like he was trying to keep from smiling.

Iggy raised a middle finger, “Fuck off.”

Colin exhaled his own cloud of smoke, “Shit bro, you gotta girlfriend?”

“No, stupid,” Iggy shot back. 

Mickey and Colin looked at each other with dropped open mouths. 

“How long?” Colin asked.

Iggy shrugged, “I dunno. She ain’t my girlfriend though. Just been hanging out.”

Mickey took the joint from Colin’s outstretched hand, “Fuck. I gotta see what kind of chick puts up with your scruffy ass.”

 

* * *

 

[Ian 11:30 PM] You up?

[Mickey 11:32 PM] Yeah, I can’t sleep.

[Ian 11:32 PM] Me either.  
[Ian 11:33 PM] This bed is so fucking small and my little brothers snore.

[Mickey 11:35 PM] How long you staying there for?

[Ian 11:35 PM] Miss me already? ;)

[Mickey 11:36 PM] Nah, I was just going to finish your Pork Lo Mein if you weren’t coming back any time soon.  
[Mickey 11:36 PM] ;)

[Ian 11:37 PM] Asshole. I’m coming back Monday.

[Mickey 11:40 PM] Good.

[Ian 11:41 PM] You DO miss me.

[Mickey 11:42 PM] You’re so obnoxious.  
[Mickey 11:42 PM] Wanna go play pool with Iggy & Colin Monday night?

 

Mickey hoped that Ian would say no. He didn't really even know why he asked, but Colin and Iggy wouldn't get off his ass about it.

 

[Ian 11:43 PM] Yeah, sounds good.

 

Shit. So it was happening.

 

[Mickey 11:44 PM] Can you play?

[Ian 11:45 PM] You mean I don’t get one of those sexy billiards lessons where you stand behind me and show me how to handle the stick?

[Mickey 11:47 PM] It’s a cue. And you handle a stick just fine.

[Ian 11:48 PM] You like the way I handle a stick?

[Mickey 11:49 PM] Yeah, I’m really trying but I can’t stop laughing at your awkward ass ‘you like the way I handle a stick’ lol jesus

[Ian 11:50 PM] Now you’re being obnoxious.   
[Ian 11:50 PM] Try again.

[Mickey 11:51 PM] I can’t, the moment is gone.

[Ian 11:55 PM] Did you jerk off today?

[Mickey 11:57 PM] lol uh… yeah.

[Ian 11:58 PM] What did you think about?

[Mickey 12:01 AM] You’ll think it’s weird.

[Ian 12:02 AM] I promise you I won’t.

[Mickey 12:03 AM] I was thinking of the way your hair looks between my fingers.

[Ian 12:03 AM] Like when you fist my hair when I’m sucking you off?

 

Mickey sighed, looking down at his phone. Fuck it. Just… fuck it.

 

[Mickey 12:05 AM] Yeah. It’s fucking hot. Got me off so quick thinking of your mouth on me and your hair between my fingers like that. You should see how good you look like that, with your mouth wrapped around me.

[Ian 12:06 AM] Oh my god. You’re killing me. I want you so bad.

[Mickey 12:08 AM] Goodnight Red ;)

[Ian 12:10 AM] ?????   
[Ian 12:11 AM] I hate you so much right now.

 

* * *

 

Ian got back from South Side just in time for lunch, so Mickey met him up at the burger place on campus. It served beer on tap and had killer fries —and the fact that campus was basically a fucking ghost town didn't hurt either.

Mickey had to admit that it was kind of cool, kind of nice just hanging out with Ian. Just being together, eating, talking about dumb shit. Movies, school, shit that didn't really matter. He liked it. Especially since he didn't have to worry about his fucking dad walking through the door at any moment. It was like this huge fucking weight had been lifted. Mickey could get used to this.

Ian had five siblings and they basically raised each other, but his sister did most of the grunt work. He loved the color blue (which was also the color he looked best in, if you asked Mickey), was in ROTC in high school and thought that maybe he wanted to go into publishing or maybe even teaching, he wasn’t sure.

And Ian got Mickey to talk longer and about more shit than anyone had ever been able to. It wasn’t even weird or uncomfortable. Because Mickey knew that yeah he loved Ian. But maybe he was doing something insane like _falling in love_ with the redhead. 

Ian fucking Gallagher.

 

* * *

 

Mickey likes to draw Ian when he’s sleeping. It’s a thing.

Ian thinks Mickey doesn't notice when Ian wakes up, peeks over at him real quick before closing his eyes again.

 

* * *

 

He’s never been one for PDA. Sometimes Ian will reach over and brush his hand over Mickey’s shoulder, or ghost his fingers through the back of Mickey’s hair. Those are fine. Those feel good and Mickey doesn't get all weird about it. Ian doesn't push him, doesn't grab his hand when they’re out or try to kiss him, even though Mickey sees it in those puppy eyes, that _please just one time_ look he gets. 

It’s not even because they’re gay and he’s embarrassed, or paranoid, whatever. Mickey’s dad is fucking gone, he doesn't worry about that shit. He’s just… never been into PDA in general. 

But sometimes, _if_ _Ian keeps his chill_ , Mickey will hang his hand down by his side while he’s standing next to the redhead, and he’ll brush the backs of their fingers against each other. It feels good. Ian has this soft, slow touch when he tangles their fingers together that Mickey likes. 

He’d probably never be okay with like… making out in the middle of the fucking sidewalk, but maybe one day he won’t be so uptight about it. Mickey’s no-chill is different than Ian’s no-chill, like that. Both of them need work.

But when it’s just them… Mickey’s good. He’s found out a lot about himself. Like he’s kind of really fucking affectionate. Which should absolutely make Mickey fucking uncomfortable as hell. But it’s okay with Ian. Ian is safe and Mickey trusts him.

The thing about Ian is that he feels good, and Mickey craves that sometimes; he can’t really explain it any further than _Ian physically feels good against his body_. And since Ian and Mickey have been hanging out more, fucking, talking, all that shit… he’s felt more comfortable to take what he wants, or to let himself give in to that craving. 

So, if he feels like he needs that contact… he goes and gets it. Weirdly, it’s not even sexual, most of the time. Mickey’s new to the whole _intimacy_ game, letting himself relax into someone, letting himself drop the fucking walls and just _be_ with Ian. But he feels like he’s getting the hang of it.

Ian reads in bed a lot more now, having time to do that shit. So Mickey lays up against him sometimes, slinging an arm over him, moving so Ian can slide an arm around his shoulders, and it feels so good and comfortable. 

Then eventually, Ian will drop his book and slide down and they’ll tangle up together. Mickey will stare at Ian and Ian lets him and doesn't say anything about it, thankfully. Mickey just likes looking at Ian. Ian looks back, sometimes leans over and kisses him long and slow, and it flips Mickey’s stomach every fucking time. 

Sometimes they fall asleep like that. Mickey’s all about it. He’s all about Ian.

 

* * *

 

Ian had him in a hold so tight that Mickey couldn't move even if he wanted to. Everything was faded in the background, he thought that maybe this was it, this was how he was going to fucking die —not being able to come untouched. He really didn't think he could do it, but Ian thought he could. And Mickey kind of wanted to prove the redhead right. Okay, he _really_ wanted to prove the redhead right.

Both of them on their knees, Mickey had one hand reaching up and behind him, fisting at Ian’s hair. Ian had his arms wrapped around him almost like a fucking seatbelt, one arm around his waist, the other around his front, fingers holding onto his throat, because Mickey trusts him to do that. And it was so fucking hot, squeezing just enough to get his heart racing. 

Ian pushed into him with more energy than Mickey knew what to do with, hitting that fucking spot on every other thrust. Mickey feels like he’s about to be ripped apart, feel like his heat in his body is just going to eventually fucking explode. 

He reaches down, needing to come so fucking bad, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Ian breathes heavy in his ear, sends a tingle down his spine, knocks his hand away from his cock. 

“I can’t,” Mickey breathes out, his body tightening up and protesting because this is almost too much, he can’t think straight. 

It’s so good, but he’s trying not to let out these fucking words and sounds that hang off the tip of his tongue and he’s not sure why. He wants to come for Ian, he wants it so fucking bad, but it feels just out of reach.

“Yes you can,” Ian pants all heavy and low, right in his ear. He pushes in deep and Mickey’s eyes clench tightly as he whines from it. “You’re doing so fucking good, Mick. Let me get you there.”

“I can’t,” Mickey gasps. He’s right there, he’s right fucking there. “I —oh fuck— I need…”

Then Ian runs his hand all over —all over Mickey’s sides and stomach and legs, wherever he can reach, he touches. He tightens his grip around Mickey’s throat a little, just barely, just enough. 

He grabs at him and rubs at his skin and muscles and Mickey, despite being fucking _plowed_ into, relaxes a little more. It felt so good, and he gives into the stupid fucking noises —the whines and gasps and loud moans. Ian is grunting and making these low, strangled noises right in his fucking ear and it’s _so_ good.

“You don’t need it,” Ian is breathless, but he’s still at it and Mickey can’t fucking figure out _how_ ; his voice is raspy and thick with want. “I know you can do it, you’re so fucking good —show me how good you are, Mickey.”

Mickey’s eyes roll the fuck back at Ian’s words, body floods with this mixture of heat and relaxation and _yes yes yes yes please fucking hell yes_. More than anything in the fucking world, he wants to show Ian how good he can be. 

Part of him hates that he needs to hear that. The other part doesn't give a shit and is repeating Ian’s words over and over again in his head, urging him on.

_You’re so fucking good —show me how good you are, Mickey._

_Show me how good you are, Mickey._

His prostate is being hit every single fucking time now and his orgasm is so close, he can reach out and brush his fingers against it, it’s right fucking _there_. It’s building and every inch of Mickey is all tight and coiled, he’s so hard that it hurts _so_ fucking good.

“Let go for me,” Ian says. “Let me get you there.”

He bites Mickey’s shoulder, tightens his grip everywhere, around his waist, around his throat… and that’s it, like a fucking undertow. Intense and overwhelming, he comes and yells, opens his fucking mouth and actually lets himself yell because it’s that fucking good. His whole body buzzes and shakes and every nerve ending is on fire, spreading out over his body. _Fuck_.

Mickey thinks Ian comes with him, or after him, he’s not sure. Everything went blurry and he’s mumbling something he can’t even understand himself, doesn't even know if it’s English at this point. He thinks Ian might be holding him up; he can’t really feel himself supporting his own body, so Ian must be.

Ian’s whispering in his ear as he holds him up, both of them breathing hard; Ian’s rubbing at Mickey’s heaving chest and stomach, kissing at his skin, telling him he’s good, so good and that he’s fucking proud of him and all that shit. 

Mickey’s accepted it at this point. He needs to hear it. Whatever. It’s important. Ian understand that, doesn't judge him for it. It doesn't hurt or bother anyone and Ian only does it during sex (every once in a while, when he feels Mickey needs it), so Mickey lets the words wash over him, lets them feel good in his ear. They feel so fucking good, all warm and safe and _Ian_.

At some point, Ian cleans them up, but almost immediately after Mickey’s head hits the pillow, he’s out like a fucking light, curling his body around his redhead’s back.

 

* * *

 

Mickey still didn't tell anyone about the showing until the last minute. He had every fucking opportunity to just casually throw it out there for weeks — _hey, by the way…_ but it never came out.

It probably had something to do with his feature piece. Ian laying in the goddamn sun like some kind of fire god that Mickey was completely, obnoxiously, into. There was no _probably_ about it. When he told Ian about the show, he’d been so nervous, hoping that he had to work or something and not be able to stop by. 

Of course Ian took off from work. Of course he recruited Mandy to come with him. Of course Mickey didn't tell either one of them that Ian was his feature piece and, between Mandy and Ian, this would turn into the most no-chill night of his fucking life.

Mickey was set up in the back, in a corner, his paintings hung up carefully on plain white walls. People filtered by, asked him the usual questions, complemented his work, tried to make small talk. Ian’s painting in particular was being received well. As was his other newest addition… a new self portrait that was hung up directly next to his old one. The contrast between them looked cool as hell.

It wasn’t hard to tell when Ian and Mandy finally figured out where he was set up. Mickey heard his sister’s “people voice”, all sweet and apologizing. He’d been grabbing what looked like a little tiny pie thing off of a passing tray when he heard them scrambling through the crowd. 

(He thought the guy carrying the tray said something that sounded like _keys_ , but it wasn't keys. They were eggy and cheesy and fucking delicious though, so Mickey didn't care _what_ they were called. All he knew was that he definitely ate more than necessary.)

Mickey hung back, watching Ian step up to his painting. Mickey called it Boy in the Sun. Just made sense. Ian was all sun. 

The redhead’s mouth moved just barely, but Mickey didn't know what he was saying. Mandy pressed against Ian’s side as they looked at the painting together. 

But then Ian turned his head and looked at Mickey’s new self portrait. Mickey couldn't see his face, but he saw Ian reach up at rub at his eyes. He saw Mandy lean over and say something, rubbing her hand up and down his arm.

It was a weird calm, and all the chatter around Mickey kind of faded away. He watched Ian stare at his self portrait. He watched Ian _see_ him as his feet moved on their own accord, guiding him to his redhead, reaching out to hold onto Ian’s shoulder, needing to touch him, needing that contact.

Ian turned to face him, his eyes all watery as he said, “You gave yourself a face.”

Mickey frowned at the tear that clung just under Ian’s eye. he reached up and brushed it away. Everyone else in the gallery was gone. It was just them, just him and Ian and the painting and the truth, “Yeah, well you uh… you know. You helped.”

Ian’s big puppy eyes told Mickey _everything_ as he ran a hand over his hair and gave this easy, almost relieved smile. Mickey knew it was coming as Ian’s lips parted. His chest tightened and Ian never looked so focused before, never looked so completely sure about what he was about to say.

His stomach bottomed-out. Both wanting to hear it and completely fucking terrified. This was it, wasn’t it? Fuck.

“Mickey, I—“

“This is the boy!” A booming voice cut Ian off. 

The voice was attached to a middle-aged man who had his hand clasped onto Ian’s shoulder. He was gesturing towards the Boy in the Sun painting and Mickey wanted nothing more than to take the goddamn painting and shove it down this guy’s fucking throat.

Ian, predictably, was patient and grinned, “Yeah.”

The guy turned to Mickey then, “You know, I just can’t get over your style. It’s dark and gritty, but so beautiful, I really love what you do with grayscale —but the color! Mr. Milkovich, your work with color is something truly inspirational, I can only see you going forward in this world.”

Mickey felt his whole face soften, kind of really taken off guard by his words. He wasn’t a stranger to compliments, but right there, in front of Ian and his sister (Shit, he forgot Mandy was even there? Fuck.) it was kind of a lot to wrap his head around.

“Wow… thank you. Thank you so much.”

The man nodded, his eyes darting between Mickey and Ian, “So you two are…”

_Now watch this._ Mickey, looking over and smirking at Ian, said for only the second time in his fucking life, “He’s my boyfriend.”

Mickey was _so_ in this. He was so fucking gone on Ian, so completely in this that it didn't even fucking matter anymore. Fuck Terry Milkovich. Ian made him smile. He loved Ian.

Ian probably thought he was chill as fuck, but those eyes didn't lie. Wide and unbelieving, Ian stood stock fucking still. Mandy, on the other hand, squealed and fidgeted next to Ian.

“Beautiful,” the middle-aged man smiled. “I’ll let you two go, but I just wanted to let you know, Mr. Milkovich, that your work is just… stunning.”

Mickey felt his face heat upas he dipped his head and thanked the guy again, watching him walk to the next artists area.

By that time, Ian had gathered his bearings a little more, his head cocking to the side as he looked over at Mickey, a slow, ridiculous smile spreading over his face. He breathed out one of those goofy ass laughs of his, “I’m your boyfriend?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. Obviously. “God, we _really_ need to work on your chill.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaannnd that's it for now!  
> I cannot say thank you enough to everyone who read or commented or left kudos -keeping up with this whole AU! :)
> 
> This has been so fun to write.  
> Keep a lookout for one-shots and whatever else from this AU too... sometime in the future. I definitely want to dive into The Brothers Milkovich & Mandy & more IanxMickey goodness. All of it. So yeah :)
> 
> (oh, if it wasn't obvious, Mickey was gorging himself on tiny quiches at the gallery lol)
> 
> Xx


End file.
